


Another Way.

by RedStarFiction



Series: Another Way. [1]
Category: Shameless (US), gallavich - Fandom
Genre: Bipolar Ian, Domestic Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Gallavich, Happy Ending, Ian Gallagher Loves Mickey Milkovich, M/M, Mickey Uses His Words, Protective Mickey Milkovich, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 06:35:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 24,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12788898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedStarFiction/pseuds/RedStarFiction
Summary: This is part one of a series looking at how things might have worked out differently if Ian had called Mickey for help when he was going through whatever awfulness happened in the army before he hit breaking point, if they had more time to figure things out and help each other through the changes that were happening in both their lives? Angst as always but a happy ending. Thank you for reading :)





	1. The Haze.

Ian hadn’t planned for it to happen. The blonde boy was older, but not by a lot, and he kept looking at Ian with deep blue eyes that were so close to that perfect blue … they almost replaced the ache in his heart with excitement … they almost reignited the fire the one he left behind had sparked in his belly.

The two recruits trained together and the blonde stood closer to Ian than he needed to. They bunked a few rows apart and would smile their good nights fondly. They were well matched on route marches and longer runs and although Ian did not know his first name, Ian knew that Private Stirling wanted him.

So Ian smiled and he stepped in close when he got the opportunity and when Private Stirling pressed him against the wall in the hallway one night, Ian pressed his lips firmly against the older boy’s. The gut punch had been a shock, but Ian had simply apologised and limped away. His feelings had been hurt but not deeply, up close the blue eyes could not compare, could not replace those he saw in his dreams, not even close.

He went to bed, dreamed of dark hair, ink-scarred hands and thighs that crushed Ian’s hips exquisitely as they rocked together. He woke up in the morning and went to the mess hall for breakfast, relieved that nothing had actually happened between himself and Private Stirling, and that was when the hazing began.

*

Ian endured weeks of petty torment. His pillowcase was pissed on. His bootlaces cut. His towel removed from the showers. His food knocked from the tray. He fought back, pushed, swore, and punched. He tried to reason and befriend. He did all that he could do yet still it continued. Eventually it started to feel like his mind was fraying around the edges with the stress of it and Ian began to wonder if it was really the kiss that began it, or if it was something more about him, something explicitly wrong that the others could smell.

He told his superiors and they called him weak. He told a nurse and she offered him no more than a sympathetic smile. He was alone in Hell and no one could understand it. Almost no one.

*

“FUCKING ANSWER THE PHONE!”

Mickey yells, his hands are full of half-counted bank notes and his temper is slipping further with every noisy vibration the little cell makes across the kitchen counter top.

“It’s your phone, asshole.”

Iggy snaps, stuffing his left hand into his pants and scratching his ball-sack elaborately, grinning at his brother before deliberately using the same hand to answer the cell.

“Fucking prick.”

Mickey tongues this edge of his mouth, swift, bad-tempered dabs that irritate his latest split lip and make him scowl.

“Yo. Mickey’s phone,”

Iggy lounges across the counter, half picking at a left over chicken wing before squinting at the device in his hand, shrugging and tossing it back onto the table beside his brother.

“They hung up.”

“Fuck sake.”

Mickey rubs the corner of his eye with his thumb and resumes his count. He has a raging headache and Svetlana has been on at him about getting a cot and a damn pram ready for when the baby comes. Apparently, she can’t just carry the fuckin’ kid around. Bitch.

The phone starts buzzing again but Mickey ignores it. He stubbornly starts counting the cash again, pausing now and then to stack it into piles. There is enough for a baby bed and cheap stroller from his cut of the business and plenty left over to pay Terry rent and board but once that is paid, Mickey is fucked.

“Little bastard ain’t even born and already bleedin’ me dry.”

He grumbles to himself, pocketing the cash for Svetlana and chucking his Dad’s money down beside the old man’s smokes. No one will be stupid enough to touch it, not even Mandy’s new boyfriend, Kenyatta.

The whores are doing an okay trade but the Alibi is a shit location in a shit neighbourhood and Mickey has no idea how to make it work better. He is married and expecting a kid and running a brothel and somehow the brothel is the least fucked up part. That makes him smile a little and he thinks about the other person who would have got how funny and terrible that is. He thinks of the wonky, freckle-faced smile, all reluctant and coy because Mickey has said something snarky.

Mickey gives the phone beside him a single-finger salute as it starts buzzing again, whoever it is can fuckin’ wait. He needs a drink.

*

Ian worries at a hangnail on his index finger and stares down at the ruined remains of his mattress, the word ‘FAG’ painted in thick smears of excrement beside the numerous stab holes. He rubs the back of the small cell phone almost compulsively with his thumb and tugs at the hangnail too hard, sending stinging pain along the cuticle and causing blood to well up to the surface of his skin.

He feels like he is about to cry and tries desperately to push it back but the tears are welling faster than he can blink them away. He wants to scream. Wants to run. Wants to set the building on fire. He is completely trapped here and every command, every order seems to be another nail in the coffin. No one cares that he is being tortured or that his brain is frying in the hot oil of his misery.

He flips the mattress over and sits on the edge of it with his head in his hands. He texts Fiona and Lip telling them he is fine, telling them he is having fun. He has tried calling the only other person he wants to talk to too many times already but he tries again anyway.

“Yo. Mickey’s phone.”

Ian panics and flips the plastic lid down and grips it tightly to his chest. He doesn’t know if that was Terry or one of the brother’s but it wasn’t Mickey. Why the fuck wasn’t it Mickey? Ian is trembling from head to toe.

He imagines running up to the roof and trying to fly away. In his mind’s eye, his arms spread like wings and he launches himself into cool, clean air, taking off like a bird, never looking back. Never stopping. Free and safe.

He taps the plastic in his hand and flips the phone open once more, hitting redial and waiting. The dialling tone drones on and on and then goes flat.


	2. Magic Bullet

Mickey wakes up with a hangover. Nothing new there but this one is accompanied by the sounds of his wife and father yelling at each other. Mickey pinches the bridge of his nose, dragging rough flecks of sleep out of the corners of his eyes, feeling around on the floor for a bottle of something. His fingers brush against the neck of an open beer bottle and he edges his chin over the lip of the mattress, before taking a tentative sip. The beer is flat and stale but it takes away the grim taste of morning.

The yelling in the kitchen has become more one sided, high-Russian accented wails of displeasure that seem to be about money but could be about any number of things.

Mickey rolls onto his back and absently scratches his belly. He could go and intervene but he knows his Dad won’t hit a pregnant woman and Svetlana isn’t dumb enough to stab her landlord so as far as Mickey is concerned, they can sort whatever the issue is themselves.

As the angry yelling continues, like a fucking lovers quarrel, Mickey thinks grimly, he realises there is a slim chance that if things escalate someone might get shot and actually, that would solve at least one of Mickey’s many problems if it was fatal. He could either stop paying rent or stop being married. Either would be fine. Maybe he could get crazy lucky and the bullet could ricochet off a cupboard door handle and somehow boomerang back and take out the shooter. Hell, maybe it could even clip Joey while it is doing the rounds and then Mickey could get the useless asshole to quit coming on jobs for a while and get his cut of the profits too.

Whilst Mickey is fantasising about some magic bullet winging its way around the kitchen, improving his life no end, Terry realises that he is losing the argument and decides it shouldn’t be his problem.

He stomps past Svetlana and slams into his youngest son’s room, finding the kid sprawled on his back gazing up at the ceiling as if there are tits hovering above his stupid grinning face.

“What the fuck are you doin’?”

Terry barks and Mickey jumps as if scalded.

“Fuckin’ … jerkin’ off. What do you want?”

“Your wife’s bein’ a bitch. Get your hand off your dick and sort her out.”

Terry glares at him and then slams back out of the room.

Mickey huffs to himself but obligingly rolls himself out of bed, taking a moment to plant his feet solidly on the threadbare carpet before hauling himself to standing.

He tugs on some shorts and a loose fitting grey tee that doesn’t technically belong to him. It is one of three shirts that he keeps in an actual drawer rather than just tossing on the floor and he gives the fabric the briefest of sniffs searching for a scent that has long been washed out, before leaving the room.

“What’s the fuckin’ problem?”

“He wants free rides! Tells girls they should show respect!”

“From you?”

Mickey’s eyes slide toward his father and his fist clench lightly but Svet shakes her head

“No. Too pregnant. Other girls.”

Svetlana points an accusing finger at Terry and gives Mickey a look that clearly says she is doing this for show because she knows he is too much of a pussy to say anything to the old man. Mickey pulls a cigarette from the packet and considers his options. If his Dad had been going after Svetlana he could have made a fuss and maybe got him to back off but not the others and Mickey knows that fighting him on it will just make things worse.

“Can you give him a … family discount or something?”

“Ty che blyad? Suka Blyad!”

Svetlana explodes and pushes past Mickey, shoving him roughly and with more strength than he would have credited her with having.

“Your wife is a bitch.”

Terry muses and Mickey closes his eyes briefly before answering

“Yeah. I know.”

Mickey grunts at his father and draws on his smoke irritably.

“Shouldn’t have fuckin’ knocked her up. You gotta marry ‘em if you knock ‘em up.”

Mickey’s hand trembles beside his leg, the fingers spasming in and out of a clenched fist but he manages to keep his voice level as he says

“You can have five bucks off the usual rate but no freebies.”

“Fuck you.”

Terry laughs and shoulder barges Mickey’s other side as he wanders through to his bedroom

Left alone in the filthy kitchen, Mickey cricks his head left and right and considers smashing something. He looks around and decides on the toaster because he figures it will make the most satisfying noise and piss off Svetlana as she is the only one who really uses it for that weird shitty black bread she eats.

He rests his cigarette on his lower lip, unplugs the thing and hoists it over his head. He is just savouring the moment before destruction when the front door is kicked open and four cops enter the house. Mickey doesn’t have time to react before there is an almighty crash from the hallway and two of them take Terry down whilst the other two draw their guns, one trained on Mickey and the other trained on someone in the living room, most likely Iggy judging from the slow, stoned sounding protest.

Terry is yelling curses and slurs as they drag him out, the cops are yelling back, something about a failed pee test, and Svetlana is yelling something in Russian but Mickey just quietly keeps his hands raised until they’re gone, the electric cord of the toaster draped over one ear.

“The fuck?”

Iggy’s head pops around the corner as the front door bangs closed behind the last cop and Mickey drops the toaster lightly back onto the counter.

“Magic bullet, man.”

He mumbles and pours a cup of coffee. The day is off to a fairly decent start all things considered. Svetlana appears in the doorway and glares at him as he sits down at the table and takes the left over bacon from Terry’s plate.

“He is gone?”

“You just saw the same thing I did. Yes he’s fuckin’ gone.”

Mickey doesn’t bother looking at his wife because he knows that kind of rudeness gets to her and he feels like being a dick.

“How long?”

Sure enough, her tone drops even further and her words become more clipped. Mickey feels a grim satisfaction but keeps it out of his voice as he answers

“How the fuck should I know?”

“I will have baby in three months.”

“Congratulations.”

Mickey snaps and then deadpans his wife as she very obviously contemplates hitting him. It is part of the weird balancing act of his marriage that Mickey finds quietly exhausting. His wife thinks he is a useless piece of shit who won’t even touch her, not that he thinks she is particularly sorry about that, but Mickey knows that the only thing that stops her occasionally flipping out and cracking him in the jaw is the fact that she doesn’t know if he’d hit her back. Mickey knows he wouldn’t, like, maybe if she tried to actually kill him he’d have to take her down but short of attempted murder there is no way he’d raise a hand to a woman, especially not his own damn wife! However, she doesn’t know that and the only way for him to retain any control of his fucked up relationship is to keep her at least a little uncertain about it. 

“We need clothes, diapers, medicine …”

“Yeah. I know.”

“No more rent means more money for baby. Not more money for cigarettes and beer. You will not …”

“What I will or will not do is my fuckin’ business, not yours!”

“I will tell your father that …”

It is a familiar threat and one that Mickey is suddenly utterly sick of. He explodes out of the chair and points a finger furiously at her, eyes blazing.

“Without him around, you don’t have one fuckin’ person in this house who wants that rugrat in your belly so before you make threats, you might want to consider your position.”

Svetlana looks away, wounded, and Mickey feels a tug of guilt but pushes it aside. It’s her own stupid fault for marrying him.

“I’m goin’ out.”

“Fine. Take phone. It will not shut up.”

Mickey nearly makes a quip about similarities but holds it back. They’re both scraped raw enough as it is and if he pisses her off enough to actually try and murder him, he’s going to have to add ‘wife beater’ to the list of shitty things he hates about himself and it’s too damn early to even think about that list.

“You need more vitamins or pregnancy shit?”

It’s a flimsy olive branch but it is all he can be bothered to offer. Svetlana gives a single shake of her head

“No. But we need milk.”

“Fine.”

Mickey nods and grabs the cell phone from her outstretched hand, stuffing it in his back pocket and scratching the back of his neck.

“I left money for the stroller in your purse, go buy whatever one you want but don’t get ripped off.”

“Thank you.”

Svetlana nods and glances up at him. Mickey sees himself reflected back in her eyes and realises they both look fucking tired and miserable. He feels sorry for the kid in her belly, being born into this mess.

“I’ll be back later, okay?”

“Yes.”

Mickey can’t think of any other thing worth saying so he grabs Terry’s car keys from the side, and his boots from the floor and stomps out of the house, barefoot, hungry and feeling like shit.

His phone starts ringing as he juggles his boots and car keys, vibrating against his ass.

“Jesus Christ! This fucker must have a fucking death wish!”

He rages. Mickey manages to wrench the door open and tosses his boots onto the passenger side, grabbing the phone from his pocket as he slams into the driving seat. It’s an unknown number and Mickey would ignore it if he didn’t want so badly to yell at whichever dumb fuck keeps calling him.

“What the fuck do you want, asshole?”

He barks into the little black speaker grill

“Mickey?”

The magic bullet ricochets off another fixture and hits Mickey square between the eyes.

“Gallagher?”


	3. Chapter 3

Ian washes the assortment of condiments from his short hair and watches the smears of ketchup and mustard circle the plug before sliding wetly down the drain. His hands are shaking as he runs them over his scalp, the water trickling down the back of his uniform, sliding down his spine before soaking into the tucked fabric of his shirt. He has wedged the bathroom door closed and he’s pretty sure no one tried to follow him anyway but if they come for him now, Ian knows he will likely kill one of them.

It is an uncomfortable knowledge. His mind is a swirling mass of rage, fear and a strange elation that keeps coming and going seemingly without reason or control. Ian knows it is most likely the stress of the hazing but it’s freaking him out. In lucid moments, he can feel that something is going very wrong but then the jittery, invincible feeling worms its way back up into his skull and he wants to do something wild. Last night he wanted to fly. Maybe steal a helicopter or a tank or maybe just fuck up the dorms. He wanted to make a stand and prove a point. Ian had felt like nothing was beyond him and that if he killed one or two of the assholes who won’t leave him alone, everyone would understand, they might even promote him! Private Gallagher is dead, long live Sergeant Gallagher. Maybe General Gallagher!

But that was last night and when he woke up this morning he was just tired and miserable again.

The door bangs hard but the chair holds and Ian drops to the floor, scrabbling backwards until he comes up against the far wall. His breathing is shallow and his eyes are huge, staring forward without blinking. He doesn’t think he has ever been so terrified in his life. Of people, of a place, of himself. Whoever it is decides to try another bathroom because the door doesn’t get tested again. Ian pulls his cell phone out of his pocket it and cradles it in his palms, waiting for his lip to stop quivering. He grips the phone and tucks his chin onto his chest, fighting the convulsive shivers that are running through his body. He’s so frightened it is almost choking him. What the fuck is going on?

He needs help but not the kind Fiona or even Lip can give him. Fiona would storm the gates and drag him out, but she would also be upset and make it a huge drama. Not on purpose but she’d pile the kids into Steve’s car and make a whole damn family outing of his rescue. And she’d see it as a rescue too which is another reason he can’t call.

He can’t call Lip because he used his ID and worse than that he doesn’t want to admit that he has failed. Things have been so weird between them and he loves his brother but Ian doesn’t want him knowing about this. It’s the first time he has branched out on his own and it’s been a colossal fuck up.

Ian dashes an impatient hand under his eye and sniffs heavily. He flips the phone up and presses redial. It rings and rings, then there is a muffled curse, and a snarling voice erupts into Ian’s ear.

“What the fuck do you want, asshole?”

It is so wonderful to hear that voice that Ian almost can’t respond and when he does, his voice comes out in a breathy whisper.

“Mickey?”

“Gallagher?”

Ian nods and then realises that Mickey can’t see him

“Yeah it’s me.”

“Have you been calling? Was that you last night?”

“Yeah I’m sorry I just …”

Ian wipes a stray tear from his cheeks and tips his head back against the wall, leaving a wet print against the pale blue paint. Mickey is in a temper, that much is clear from his tone but it doesn’t matter.

“Why the fuck didn’t you send a damn text?”

“I didn’t think of it.”

“Well I would have fuckin’ answered if I knew it was you.”

“You would? I probably wouldn’t if you called me.”

Ian wonders if Mickey has hung up after the sting of that comment but after a few moments he says

“Where the fuck are you?”

Ian sniffs heavily, wiping his nose on his sleeve

“I’m in the army.”

There is another pause and then Mickey huffs a heavy breath down the line

“Are you crying?”

The concern breaking through the harsh tone is too much and the last of Ian’s fortitude crumbles. He turns the phone away from his face as he goes to pieces, burying his face in the crook of his arm to muffle the noise.

“Gallagher? GALLAGHER? Fuck sake! IAN! What’s goin’ on?”

Mickey’s irate voice drags him back and Ian draws a shuddering breath.

“I’m in trouble Mickey. I fucked up and I think they’re gonna kill me unless I kill them and I don’t want to. I’m so fucking fucked.”

“What? Has some fuckin’ jarhead asshole threatened you? What happened?”

“They just won’t stop. I don’t know what to do.”

Ian is sobbing so hard the words come out in a strained, hiccuping rush of breath and Mickey’s voice hardens back to its familiar gruffness.

“You call your family? Lip? Fiona?”

“I can’t. I just … I can’t call them.”

Mickey mutters a curse that Ian doesn’t quite catch and Ian can almost see the hard-edged, calculating scowl that he knows instinctively is on the other boys face.

“Where are you?”

“In the …”

“Yeah, yeah. The Army. I got that. Where in the country?”

Ian takes a couple of deep breaths and stammers

“Fort Knox. Kentucky.”

“Jesus Christ. OK, I’m gonna have to get gas but I can make that. What is it, like four hours? Five?”

“You don’t have to...”

“I know I don’t fuckin’ have to. Just pack your shit and be ready.”

“It’s not … I can’t just leave. It’s like … illegal.”

“Well it don’t fuckin’ sound like you have a choice. Keep your phone with you and if any asshole tries anything before I get there, shoot ‘em in the face.”

*

Mickey hangs up and sits staring out of the windshield at the rundown old house, his fingers gripping the steering wheel. He glances up at the rear-view mirror, at the dark circles under his eyes and his dishevelled hair.

“Fuck.”

He whispers to his reflection and rubs a hand over his face, hard. He gives himself another few seconds of quietly anxious brooding and then snaps into action. One thing that Mickey will always credit a South Side childhood with is that it forces a person to be able to move from one shitty situation to an even shittier one with pretty smooth transition.

Mickey gets out of the car and heads back into the house, head held high and swaggering like a cowboy in a black and white movie. Svetlana is making herself breakfast and simply cocks an eyebrow at him as he walks past.

Iggy asks if he can have the car, Mickey growls at him to fuck off and judiciously keeps the keys with him while he showers and washes his hair. Kenyatta has left a bottle of cologne on the side and as he towels his body dry and then styles his hair, Mickey’s eyes keep returning to it.

He’s never worn cologne before, but then he’s never gone on a rescue mission before either. Normally when he is going after someone, it is the opposite of a damn rescue so perhaps he can stand to change things up a little.

Mickey cautiously picks up the bottle and gives it a little shake before dabbing some of the musky smelling liquid onto his fingers and patting along the length of his jaw. He once saw an old film in which the leading lady trailed perfume between her breasts to let the leading man know she was down to bang and Mickey figures that if he’s gone this far why not finish the job? He puts a little more of the cologne on his hand and roughly rubs his fingers through his pubes.

He dresses in dark jeans and black tank top but grabs his one decent button down shirt and slings it into a bag along with two handguns and his favourite knuckle-duster. Ian sounded pretty messed up on the phone, best to be ready to fight as well as fuck.

Mickey turns to face Svetlana’s mirror and assesses himself frankly. He can’t do much about the scabbed lip or tired eyes but his hair looks pretty fuckin’ decent and he’s been working out more with his brothers to try and avoid spending too much time with his wife so his arms look alright in the tank.

Overall, Mickey thinks, he’ll do.

*

Ian doesn’t shoot anyone but a couple of hours later, he gets into a fight. It starts with a slap, sharp and stinging across his left cheek as he walks past Stirling and his gang in the mess hall. Ian freezes and then the word ‘Queer’ is said by one of the group and something inside him snaps. He doesn’t remember much, but he knows he made a lot of noise and at some point bit someone’s leg until his jaw cramped.

Rough hands pulled him out of the fray and pushed him backwards and some instinct other than violence took over because suddenly Ian is running. He pushes out of the doors of the building and sprints across the gravel courtyard. The gates are open for cadets coming in from the training fields to get their evening meal and Ian doesn’t hesitate, he takes off down the road, nose streaming blood and snot, everything he owns is left behind, except his cell phone which he clutches for dear life.


	4. Drive.

The drive to Fort Knox should take five and a half hours. The speed limit should be followed. There are a lot of ‘should’s in life. Mickey makes the journey in four hours and twenty minutes. He pulls in about half a mile away from the imposing looking main building and dials Ian.

“Hey Mickey.”

Ian sounds out of breath and Mickey can barely hear him over the wind.

“Hey, I’m here. Where are you?”

“I don’t know.”

Ian giggles. Mickey bites his lip impatiently.

“Well that ain’t a whole lot of fucking use to me, Gallagher.”

“I ran, Mick. I busted that pricks face and I fuckin’ ran. I’m under a bridge. Want me to find out which one?”

Mickey makes an elaborately aggressive hand gesture and curls his upper lip at the stupidity of that question, glaring at the handset.

“Uh … yeah. That would be a useful piece of information for me to have.”

“OK, hang on ...”

Ian hangs up and Mickey uses up all of his remaining patience on not throwing his cell out of the window, driving back to Chicago and letting Gallagher sort his own shit out.

When his phone rings again Mickey’s answers it with a firm

“What?”

“It’s Hendersons Bridge. I’m under that.”

“Well fucking get over it and back onto the road so I can pick you up.”

“Are you really in Kentucky?”

Ian sounds like he’s about to laugh again and Mickey clenches his jaw hard enough that his teeth squeak. This isn’t like Ian. Even if the asshole was still pissed at Mickey, which the brunette reasons he probably is, this weird tweaker sounding crap isn’t like him. He sounds … vacant.

“Yeah for some stupid ass reason I’m in Kentucky and I’ve got about a quarter tank of gas left to get the fuck out again so can you please stop dicking around and get your ass somewhere I can come get you?”

“Sure. OK … um … you on the road to the fort?”

“Yeah, ‘bout half a mile out.”

“Cool, I ran about six miles so maybe just drive back along but drive slowly; you don’t wanna kill me do you?”

Ian laughs and Mickey narrowly resists the urge to suggest that he might actually be okay with that.

“Just stay on the main road, man. I’ll find you.”

Mickey grits the words with as much forbearance as he can muster and hangs up, swinging the car round. Fuckin’ Gallagher.

*

Mickey lets out a relieved sigh when a familiar figure comes into view walking on the verge of the road. He beeps his horn lightly and Ian turns around to face the oncoming car. His face is a damn mess and Mickey doesn’t feel so bad about his own split lip any more.

“Whose neck am I breakin’ for that shit?”

Mickey calls, leaning across to speak through the open window as he pulls up alongside the younger boy.

“No one. I took care of it.”

Ian smiles and gets into the passenger seat. He’s wearing his military uniform and Mickey can’t help but notice just how much he’s filled out even in the last few months. Ian wipes a hand beneath his nose, the blood is sticky but mostly dry and he gives Mickey a goofy grin.

“My knight in shining armour. Well, not shining, this car is a piece of shit!”

Mickey smiles despite himself and licks his lip, Ian’s eyes follow the movement and his smile fades to a frown as he takes in the scab.

“Woah. Someone hit you. What happened?”

“Are you kiddin’ me? The fuckin’ state of you and you’re worried about this little scratch? Unbelievable.”

Mickey frowns and shakes his head

“Do I look bad?”

Ian asks cautiously. Mickey gives him a side-eyed look, thumbing the edge of his nose awkwardly

“You’re covered in blood and you smell like horse shit, but no, you don’t look bad, Gallagher. Not to me.”

The boys share a shy smile and Mickey puts the car in gear, heading away from the fort.

“Alirght. Where do you wanna go?”

“Can we get a hotel?”

Ian asks and Mickey puffs out his cheeks considering

“I dunno man, I got like forty bucks and most of that is gonna go in this tank. Plus Svetlana will be pissed if I stay out all night.”

“Svetlana?”

Ian jerks backwards as if Mickey has slapped him and Mickey shrugs defensively, taking his eyes from the road to glance at Ian

“What?”

“Well … you’re here! I thought … How are you still married?”

“Don’t worry, she’s about as happy with it as I am.”

Mickey runs a hand tersely through his hair and bites his lip absent-mindedly. He doesn’t want to talk about his marriage right now. He just wants to enjoy being around Ian, no matter the circumstances.

“So what? You just told her you were coming to see your old … me?”

Ian finishes lamely, not sure whether to call himself a boyfriend, lover or some other stupid title. Mickey waves the question away and rolls his shoulders uncomfortably.

“Look it’s not like it’s a big deal, I can’t afford a hotel anyway but if you want I can bring you back to my place. My dad got arrested this morning so he’s out of the picture, thank fuck.”

“No thanks.”

Ian shakes his head and stares resolutely out of the window, jaw set firmly. Mickey rolls his neck and makes an exasperated hand gesture before saying

“Are you just gonna pout for the whole journey now?”

“I’m not pouting I just … it’s fine.”

“What? What’s fine?”

Mickey snaps, defensiveness making his tone sharper than he intended

“I can’t believe you’re still living with her. Does she share your bed too? You a proper happy couple now?”

Ian doesn’t yell but it’s a close thing

“She lives with me and I make sure she’s fed. That’s about the extent of it.”

Mickey answers and Ian turns to him, green eyes furiously bright

“Didn’t answer my question.”

“Shouldn’t fuckin’ have to! Jesus. I just spent my whole day driving across state because you made one damn phone call and you’re gonna sit there all pissed at me cause of somethin’ you already knew? Grow up, Ian.”

“Why won’t you just be who you are?”

Ian slaps his thigh in a fit of temper and Mickey scoffs dismissively, gesturing with splayed fingers to Ian’s bloody face

“Yeah, because that seems to be workin’ out for you real well.”

They drive in a tense silence for maybe twenty minutes until they come to a gas station and Mickey pulls in.

“I gotta fill the tank.”

“K.”

“You hungry?”

“Yeah.”

Ian nods but refuses to make eye contact with him and Mickey sucks in his bottom lip, eyebrows raised and eyes wide.

“Well? What do you want to eat?”

Ian’s answer is flat

“Whatever you have. Thanks.”

“You’re very fuckin’ welcome!”

Mickey slams the car door, taking the keys with him because Mickey doesn’t want to have to hunt Ian down and kick his ass if he takes off with the car. He tops up the gas, ramming the nozzle in and out with more force than strictly necessary, hoping that the clanging is getting on Gallagher’s nerves.

Mickey heads into the gas station, clocks the cameras and the guy behind the counter who looks more asleep than awake and saunters down the aisles, filling his pockets with first aid supplies and a couple of candy bars before sauntering up to the till to pay for gas and get a couple of hotdogs.

Ian shifts uncomfortably in the seat as guilt nags at him. He doesn’t want to be a prick but the hurt and anger he thought distance would wash away are ebbing back and forth amidst all the other mixed up feelings and he can’t seem to get a decent handle on them. Watching Mickey’s head bob up and down in the store window, Ian realises just how terribly he really has missed him. Even before the bullying, before his mind felt like it was unravelling, he missed Mickey with every fibre of his being and it hurts to know he is still with Svetlana, even though it is not a shock.

When Mickey gets back to the car, Ian accepts the food with another muffled thank you, holding Mickey’s as well while he pulls away from the pump and into a parking space beside the store. As they eat the tension between them lessens slightly and Ian allows his posture to soften just a little.

“You want the radio on?”

“Yeah sure.”

Mickey fiddles with the dial, grimacing as he shuffles through country music and sugary pop stations to get to a fairly okay station playing classic rock. Ian watches him eat out of the corner of his eye. He’s always loved how exuberantly Mickey chews his food, the way he mostly leaves his mouth open and really rolls everything around in there, openly enjoying himself and fuck whatever anyone else thinks.

“You got mustard ...”

Ian motions to the corner of Mickey’s mouth and when the older boy raises a knuckle to the wrong side Ian gives him a lopsided smile and reaches across and wipes the little smear of yellow away with his own thumb, the weight of it lightly tugging Mickey’s full bottom lip downward. The small touch is electric and both boys feel the shock waves ripple through them.

Ian notices Mickey’s pupils dilate at the contact and deliberately sucks the pad of his thumb, maintaining eye contact. Mickey’s tongue slides over the spot where Ian has just touched him and turns slightly in his seat to look at him properly.

“We … ah ...”

Mickey clears his throat as his voice cracks and shakes himself slightly. Gallagher does things to him that Mickey can’t explain but there is dried blood all over Ian’s face and they need to take care of that before getting distracted with anything else.

“We gotta clean you up. I got some stuff.”

He empties his pockets of the antiseptic lotion, cotton buds and band-aids and both the snickers bars. Ian glances dispassionately at the kit but his eyes light up at the sight of the candy.

“You still eat these?”

He plucks one of the bars from Mickey’s lap, his wrist grazing the snugly fitted denim.

“Yeah, they’re alright.”

“Must be. You got shot for one.”

Ian teases and Mickey allows a small smile to lighten his own face.

“Yeah I think that towel-head paedophile was real upset about me takin’ his candy.”

“Was the nut worth it?”

It’s a lame double entendre but those are kind of Ian’s speciality and Mickey secretly loves them, like he secretly loves so many of the goofy things Ian does.

“Your jokes still suck, man.”

Mickey flashes his teeth in a genuine grin as Ian punches his arm

“My jokes are awesome.”

He picks up the antiseptic stuff and begins to pull the plastic film off it. Mickey picks up the cotton pads and motions for Ian to give the lotion to him.

“C’mere.”

“I can do it.”

Ian protests but Mickey just frowns and takes hold of his chin, turning his head firmly to face him.

“Gonna sting.”

“I know.”

Ian wrinkles his nose as Mickey points out the obvious and Mickey bugs his eyes at him in retaliation.

“Well I’m just sayin’ because I don’t want you squirming like a little bitch and getting this shit in your eye.”

“You’re a good nurse.”

Ian teases, smiling that smile which turns Mickey’s guts inside out again.

“Okay, you know what ...”

Mickey tries to shove the prepped cotton swab into Ian’s hand but Ian refuses to take it, smirking at Mickey knowingly

“Sorry, sorry. Go ahead, Nurse Ratched.”

“Fuckin’ would lobotomise your cocky ass if I had the chance.”

Mickey grumbles but his touch is unaccustomedly gentle as he wipes the pad over Ian’s cuts and scrapes.

“So you ever gonna tell me what the fuck is goin’ on?”

Ian fixes his gaze on the cracked window frame behind Mickey’s left ear and swallows heavily.

“Group of assholes started hazing me a few weeks back. It got pretty bad, they wouldn’t stop. Messed up all my stuff, attacked me in the corridors. It felt like I was goin’ mad.”

Mickey grunts and turns Ian’s chin slightly to wipe blood from his hairline

“What made them start?”

“I thought… I thought one of them wanted me to kiss him … so I kissed him.”

Mickey’s hand freezes and Ian feels the fingers on his chin tighten a fraction.

“Well that was stupid.”

His voice is measured but there is an undercurrent of something that Ian can almost hope is jealousy but suspects is just incredulity at his idiocy.

“I think he was scared. He kept putting the moves on me but when it came to it he was afraid. He’s probably not a bad guy.”

“Bullshit. You can be scared of somethin’ without being a fuckin’ dick about it.”

Mickey snaps, he doesn’t want to hear Ian defend some asshole who has made his life miserable, especially not an asshole Ian wanted to kiss.

“Really? The wedding band on your finger and my chipped molar say otherwise.”

It’s a low blow and Ian isn’t surprised when the antiseptic lotion is pressed more firmly into a graze on his cheekbone, making him hiss through his teeth with the sting of it. Mickey knows Ian’s jibes aren’t exactly undeserved but that doesn’t mean they aren’t fucking annoying.

“What’s his name? The guy who started all this shit.”

“What does it matter?”

“It matters.”

Mickey says grimly and Ian knows they look in his eye all too well. In a bizarre twist of fate, Ian has gone from haunted prey to unwitting hunter and he realises that he very likely holds Private Stirling’s life in his hand.

“He was just some guy. I don’t even know his name.”

Ian lies and Mickey’s brows knit briefly together before he shrugs and decides to let it go for now.

Mickey finishes the rest of the clean-up job in silence and starts the car engine, pulling out of the gas station and angling the car back toward Chicago.

“Thank you for driving all this way.”

Ian says softly after a couple of miles have passed. Blue eyes flick sideways to meet his and Mickey grunts in acknowledgement. What Mickey wants to say is that he is glad Ian called him and that the distance is nothing to him but what he settles on is:

“It’s fine.”

“I was considering stealing a chopper to get out.”

Ian smiles suddenly and Mickey lets out a shocked laugh that makes Ian’s smile widen

“You know how to fly one?”

“No.”

Ian admits, running a hand self-consciously through his hair. Mickey’s tongues his cheek, eyes sparkling and Ian rolls his eyes, knowing he is being mocked.

“It can’t be that much different from a car.”

“You shitting me?”

“What? It’s just hand controls and buttons.”

“Yeah! Complicated ones! I bet you wouldn’t even have got the damn thing off the ground, more likely you’d have tipped it over and broken it.”

“Oh fuck you! I’d have been fine.”

Ian laughs as Mickey raises a slender black brow and tilts his head in the universal gesture of ‘yeah right’

“Gallagher, I’ve seen you drive. Even if you got it going, you’d have flown at like two miles an hour and stopped to let fuckin’ birds cross the clouds.”

Ian tries not to laugh but it bursts forth in a gloriously loud snort

“Damn you’re a classy broad!”

Ian raises his middle finger to Mickey’s nose, closes his eyes, and leans his head back against the headrest contentedly, feeling better than he has in weeks.

“Hey, listen, you sure you don’t want to go and fuck those guys up properly? I don’t wanna have to drive all the way back in a few days if you change your mind.”

Mickey lights a smoke one handed and then tosses the packet to Ian, who catches them but doesn’t take one.

“No, I don’t want to go back there.”

“Sure?”

When Ian doesn’t answer, Mickey chances a glance over at him. He seems to be nodding off so Mickey slows the car down a little, not enough that Ian would notice it but enough to draw the journey out. It’ll burn more gas and Mickey will probably have to find money to top it up again in the morning but fuck it. Money ain’t everything.

Mickey isn’t surprised that Gallagher seems so exhausted. It’s hard to sleep when you’re constantly waiting for the next shitty thing to happen to you. Mickey knows that very well and he is happy to let Ian sleep, nothing is going to happen to him now.

*

A little while later Ian jerks in his sleep and murmurs something. When he looks over, Mickey notices there are tear tracks on Ian’s cheeks. Whatever the ‘hazing’ was, it was clearly fuckin’ awful and Mickey chews on the inside of his cheek wishing he had the ring-leaders name.

Ian jerks again and Mickey lets go of his dark thoughts, reasoning with himself that Kentucky ain’t so far to come if Ian ever does tell him.

He reaches across the space between them and touches Ian’s shoulder, lightly shaking him.

“Ian? It’s okay man, just a dream.”

Ian blinks into waking and as his eyes meet Mickey’s, a sweet smile of recognition curves his mouth and he sighs.

“It’s you.”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

Mickey flicks his eyes back to the empty road ahead as Ian shifts himself to lay his head on Mickey’s bare shoulder.

“You smell good, Mick.”

He mutters and then sinks back into sleep, unaware of the effect his words have on the older boy, who blinks rapidly and twitches his nose. Mickey has no idea how four words from Ian can make him feel like the weight of the world is dropping from his shoulders but there it is. He feels better than he has in weeks and it’s all because Ian Gallagher is near him.

He waits until he is sure that Ian is definitely asleep and then leans down and places a single kiss on Ian’s temple, the feel of fine copper hair against his lips, as welcome as the warmth of the sun after a long winter.

“Missed you, Firecrotch.”

He murmurs, and eases his foot off the gas pedal a little more.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s late by the time they pull up outside the Milkovich house. Somehow, Mickey managed to make the drive last nearly six and a half hours despite the lack of traffic. Ian slept most of the way but that was fine. It was good just to be close to him again.

Ian blinks and makes a weird sleepy noise with his tongue that makes Mickey smile, though he quickly arranges his face back to neutrality as Ian sits up, rubbing his neck.

“Where are we?”

“My place. You don’t have to come in but Mandy will be there.”

Mickey hates that his sister is probably a greater lure for Ian than he is but he’ll use what he has and if it keeps the redhead by his side a bit longer …

“Sure. I guess I should say hi.”

Ian nods and grabs a heavy lungful of air. The mess that has been roiling in his brain seems to have receded a little since he managed a decent sleep and he pats Mickey’s thigh without really thinking about it.

“Sorry you had to do all the driving.”

“No problem.”

Mickey smiles, discreetly sliding his fingers down the patch of denim that Ian has just touched, savouring the feeling.

“I like your hair by the way. Suits you longer.”

Ian says casually as he gets out of the car, oblivious to the rush of pleasure that comment gives Mickey, no one else had mentioned his new look and he is pleased that Ian noticed. Mickey checks himself out in the mirror briefly and then follows Ian up the path to his home.

He finds it weird that Gallagher just walks so confidently into the unlocked house ahead of him, but chooses not to think about it. It’s been a weird day all round.

Mandy is on the sofa with Svetlana watching some old movie and she barely bothers to glance up as the door opens but the familiar sweep of red hair grabs her attention and the shrieking reunion that follows has Mickey wishing he had just stumped up the cash for a hotel after all.

Svetlana’s eyes narrow at her husband

“Why has the cat come home with ginger rat?”

“Huh?”

“What is he doing here?”

“Needs a place to crash.”

Mickey huffs at her and moves into the kitchen in search of food and coffee, he hates long drives, they wipe him out, and for once he doesn’t feel like getting drunk.

Svetlana follows him through and blocks his path to the fridge.

“What is he doing here?”

“I already told you. He needs to crash and we got room.”

“Where? House is full.”  
“He can sleep on the couch.”

Mickey scowls at her, yanking the fridge door open against her ass.

“Move.”

“Your boyfriend cannot stay here.”

Svetlana is ready for the explosive reaction this question gets and steps back against the fridge as her husband invades her space and puts his nose less than an inch from her own. She wonders distractedly, which of their noses the baby will have.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Your fath...”

“I don’t give a shit about my father and you need to stop using him as your go to bitch-fit weapon. It’s getting kind of old.”

Mickey’s voice is low and dangerous but Svetlana is made of sterner stuff than most of the South Side thugs that have cowered beneath that icy blue gaze. She lifts herself to her full height and grabs Mickey’s hand, placing it against the swell of her belly.

“This. You take care of this.”

Mickey yanks his hand away and steps back from her, giving them both space.

“The red one cannot stay here when baby arrives.”

She says softly and slinks away, slamming their bedroom door hard behind her. Mickey’s nostrils flare with the strength of his frustrated inhalation but he lets her go. Svetlana can huff and puff all she wants, Ian is here now and that is what matters. If Mickey is being honest with himself, out of all this other shit, Ian being here now is all that matters to him and with every glimpse of that freckled smile and emerald gaze, it is becoming more and more apparent.

“Ugh. Coffee? Where’s the beer?”

Mandy slides past Mickey and gives him a quick peck on the cheek. Apparently he is in her good graces for bringing Ian home.

“Your beer or mine? Mine is in the fridge. Yours is in the fuckin’ store, bitch.”

Mandy playfully flips him off and grabs two bottles from Mickey’s box in the fridge.

“Fuck off, dickbag. We’re going out back, wanna bring your old man party drink and join?”

Mickey takes the teasing about as well as he is ever able to, which means a frown and lazy roll of his tongue and then capitulating to his sisters will.

*

Mandy sits on Ian’s lap, her arms around his neck and Mickey sits on the steps beside them, his hands wrapped around the coffee mug. It’s not quite winter but the air is chilly and Mandy snuggles further into her friends chest, unaware of the wave of jealousy the action sends through her big brother.

Ian fills her in about the army, but only the good bits. He blames his sudden departure on the fight but doesn’t give any details as to what caused it and the secret that they share makes Mickey feel a bit better.

Svetlana doesn’t join them but at some point Iggy wanders out with a bong and a few joints to share, Mandy puts her iPod on and they cobble together something of a welcome home party.

Mandy moves when Kenyatta arrives and Ian shifts himself closer to Mickey, allowing his little finger to lightly touch against the his hand, tracing the inked-letter on his knuckle as it rests on the step. Mickey’s eyebrows twitch upwards but he doesn’t move his hand immediately. . It is a tiny victory in a life that has previously seemed destined to be littered with loss and both boys appreciate it fully.

*

Mickey doesn’t have much in the way of blankets but what he can scavenge he deposits on the sofa and gives Ian the pillow from his bed. Mickey doesn’t really need it anyway.

“You gonna be okay out here?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

Ian laughs. He looks down at Mickey who is staring at the sofa with a fixation that is almost funny.

“It’s fine, Mickey. I appreciate you letting me stay.”

“Sure.”

Mickey nods and folds his arms across his chest, lips pressed anxiously together. He doesn’t want to go into his bedroom and slip under the covers beside Svetlana. In fact, he can’t think of much else that he wants to do less but what choice does he have? Even if the sofa was big enough for both of them to lie comfortably on, Iggy is around and Mickey doesn’t really give a shit about Kenyatta but he’s here too …

“It’s alright, Mick. I get it.”

Ian’s voice cuts through Mickey’s thoughts and his head snaps up, pained blue eyes meeting understanding green ones.

“I’ll see you in the morning then.”

Mickey manages to say, though his throat burns a bit and his vision blurs ever so slightly.

“Yeah. Good night.”

Ian touches Mickey’s jaw with the tips of his fingers, it is the briefest of touches but it is nearly the undoing of the youngest Milkovich brother, who sniffs heavily and bobs his head, stepping backwards towards his bedroom.

“Night.”

Mickey rubs a hand from his nose down over his chin and quickly closes the door on Ian before his resolve can crumble any further. He slides into bed beside Svetlana and closes his eyes. He’s exhausted, stressed and feeling things that are confusing and uncomfortable but he’s also the closest to happy that he has been in months. Ian is home.


	6. Make it your problem.

Ian wakes at five am and sits up. He listens intently but can’t hear anyone else moving around. He moves into the kitchen and finds a tub of coffee, adding a generous scoop to the peculator and flicking the switch on. It makes a groaning noise and Ian winces. He doesn’t want to wake anyone up, especially not Mickey.

Once the cheap, dark coffee is brewed, Ian pours a cup and leans back against the counter. He can’t stay here and he can’t go home. He has no money, no job, no purpose. He’s never been worth much, a Gallagher from South Side is worth about as much as anyone else from South Side, but the army was supposed to be his way out, his way to make himself and his life count for something.

Now it’s fucked.

Ian wonders what it is that he actually has to offer and the answer is very little. He knows Mickey cares for him, but what use is that to either of them? Mickey is married with a kid on the way and what he does for money … Ian realises he has no idea what Mickey does for money. He didn’t even think to ask about Mickey at all. Once he knew he was still married, Ian had pretty much shut his mind off from wanting to ask anything else and of course Mickey wouldn’t volunteer the information! The guy never thinks to talk about himself, barely seems to register that he is an actual person with thoughts and feelings ... fuck! Ian hangs his head and breathes deeply. No, he definitely can’t stay here.

He’s heard about under-age guys getting work in Boys Town and if nothing else the army has given him a decent body… He drains his coffee cup and makes a decision. Maybe it’s the caffeine but now that Ian is more awake, he feels consumed with energy.

His mind is racing with possibility and he imagines owning his own club, he could call it ‘Firecrotch’ Mickey would like that! Maybe he could visit! Ian’s thoughts swing around the maypole of that idea for a couple of minutes as he tugs his boots on and he realises he is grinning a full, heady smile that makes him feel amazing.

He considers waking Mickey up to tell him the good news, that Ian has managed to find a new path in life less than twenty-four hours of losing his old one, and if that isn’t luck, Ian doesn’t know what is.

He pours a cup of coffee and eases Mickey’s bedroom door open. Svetlana is breathing deeply, buried under quilts, her back to her husband who is facing the door, lips sweetly parted in sleep, his hand curled up by his chin like a little kid.

Ian’s heart squeezes tight and he can’t bring himself to wake him. Instead he puts the coffee down beside the bed and kisses one delicately structured cheekbone.

“Thank you for saving me.”

He whispers and creeps back out of the room. It is a brand new day and Ian feels incredible … invincible. He leaves the Milkovich house and heads down town, it’s a long way but Ian doesn’t care. He can run it and he does, laughing at the sheer perfection of the morning and all within it. He waves to crack heads in alleys and calls out to shopkeepers setting up for the day. He gets to Boys Town just before six am and approaches three men smoking outside one of the brightly painted doors.

They look him up and down as he explains that he is looking for work and then one of them, a blond guy with a natty little beard, tells him to come to the White Swallow at 7pm and ask for Roger. Ian shakes all their hands and promises to be there.

He doesn’t have anything else to do for the morning so he just wanders around Chicago, smiling.

*

Mickey does not wander round Chicago smiling. In fact Mickey does quite the fucking opposite. He rages. Internally and externally. He woke up that morning to a half-remembered sensation of being kissed on the cheek and had a smile on his face for all of three seconds before he swung his legs out of bed and kicked over a mug of luke-warm coffee.

About a minute after that, he realised that Ian was gone and his day went rapidly downhill from there.

By lunch time he had worked himself up into such a fury that he is glad Gallagher is gone because if Mickey had found him, he’d have likely killed him. Even Svetlana stays out of his way when she senses his mood and wisely keeps her happiness at Ian’s disappearance to herself.

“He say anything to you? Anything at all?”

He demands of Mandy for the third time and it is only the frantically hopeless look on her brother’s face that stops her going into her own temper tantrum at the constant badgering.

“No. Okay? He didn’t say anything to me at all. Quit asking me.”

“Well somebody has gotta know where the fuck he went! Why the fuck does no one know?”

Mickey yells, turning away from Mandy to kick a kitchen chair across the room.

“Oh, great! Nice one, Mickey!”

Mandy snaps at him as two of the legs fly in separate directions and the battered thing topples over. She stomps past him to see if it can be fixed and mutters

“Try looking outside of the house maybe.”

“Do you have something to fuckin’ say to me?”

Mickey whirls to face her, chest puffed out and arms held wide. Mandy knows he isn’t going to hit her but the posturing finally makes her lose her own temper

“Yeah. Get out of this shitty house and look for your fuckin’ boyfriend...”

“Hey! I don’t know what the fuck you’re ...”

“Don’t play dumb with me, asshole. Ian left the first time because of you and I don’t know why he left this time but you’re not gonna know either unless you get out there and look!”

“I went and got him once already! This is not my problem...”

“Ugh. Nothing is ever your problem. Make Ian your problem or stop throwing a fuckin’ hissy fit over it.”

Mandy points a finger in her brother’s face

“And stop trashing the house. You’re not the only person who lives here.”

Mickey purses his lips and glares after her retreating back. He considers smashing another chair but as that is unlikely to move his day along he decides against it.

It’s not that he minds Ian going his own way, it is the lack of any sort of good bye and a niggling sensation that Mickey had all day yesterday that Gallagher wasn’t right. Obviously he was stressed as shit by the pricks at basic training but it was more than that it was … fuck. Mickey can’t say exactly what it was but it was enough that it is really concerning him now.

He paces back and forth like a caged bear in a zoo for a couple of minutes and then grabs his smokes and his keys and heads over to the Gallaghers.

*

Fiona opens the door and internally cringes.

“Hi Mickey.”

“Is Ian here?”

Fiona ignores the rude lack of preamble and folds her arms. She isn’t Mickey Milkovich’s biggest fan but he looks tired and upset and he’s wearing a smart black button down that actually looks pretty clean. She hasn’t seen him for a while but the kid looks like he’s trying to get his shit together.

“No, he hasn’t been home for weeks.”

“I brought him back from the army yesterday. I thought he’d be here.”

“You …? The army?”

Fiona grabs Mickey’s arm and tugs him roughly inside.

“Explain.”

“What?”

Mickey looks pointedly at her hand but Fiona doesn’t let go.

“How did you find him?”

Mickey shakes her off and gives her a disapproving frown, smoothing the sleeve of his shirt before deigning to answer and Fiona has to suppress a small smile. Mickey might be the same age as Lip, but he carries himself differently and she can sort of see why Ian, who seems to prefer older men, likes Mickey’s way of being.

“He called me. Said he was in trouble so I went and got him. From Fort Knox.”

“As in Kentucky?”

“Yeah.”

Mickey looks almost embarrassed to admit this but Fiona gives him a surprised nod of respect.

“Okay. Thank you for doing that. What was the trouble?”

“That’s for Ian to tell you if he wants to but listen he don’t seem right. I know we all got things that make us a bit … but he just seems like … I dunno.”

Fiona sighs a little impatiently but gives Mickey a small smile. He’s clearly trying and for someone like him, Fiona is willing to believe that this sort of thing does not come easy. She moves through into the kitchen and holds up the coffee jug in offer. Mickey shakes his head and stuffs his hands into his pockets.

“Can you describe it? Was it like he was high?”

“Yeah, no, it was more like he was zigzagging all over the place. One minute being a dick and the next being … well, more like Ian.”

Mickey rolls his shoulders and scuffs one capped boot across the threadbare carpet. He hates this. It feels like ratting Ian out but it also feels really damn important that someone in Ian’s family know what’s going on. In all honesty it kind of surprised Mickey that Ian hasn’t been home and seemingly hasn’t called. The Gallagher’s always seemed like the damn South Side Ghetto Waltons. ‘Good night John-boy’, ‘Good night alcoholic waster dad’ … all that shit.

“Did he look okay? Eating? Sleeping?”

“Yeah, I mean he got in a fight before I picked him up but we cleaned it up, I fed him and he slept a bit on the drive.”

Mickey rolls his bottom lip between his front teeth and looks up at Fiona with eyes that are dark with worry and for the first time she feels an inkling of liking for the rough kid from down the block. The one she would never let Lip hang out with. The one who used to smell as bad as he looked in his worn out clothes and shit-slinging sneer. A little thug at ten years old and no better at seventeen. Eighteen though? Maybe.

“If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re looking.”

“Thanks. If I give you my cell number you think you could text me? Just let me know he’s home?”

“Sure. Write it down.”

Fiona shoves an old envelope and a slightly chewed pen across the counter and Mickey only gives the chewed end a cursory, revolted glance before picking it up and scribbling his digits down.

“Do you know where he might have gone?”

“Sorry Mickey. I really don’t.”

Fiona pushes her hair back from her face in a sweeping gesture that is at once protective and dismissive and Mickey nods briefly.

“Alright. Well. See ya then.”

He pauses on the sidewalk to light a cigarette and puff a few clouds of fragrant grey smoke into the air around him. He needs to check in on the girls at the Alibi, he can’t just leave that crap up to Kev. The guy is a seven foot of simple minded pussy and Mickey doesn’t trust him not to end up getting ripped off if left alone for too long.


	7. Whenever, Wherever,

Ian stops into a diner and checks his phone. He is running low on battery and Mickey has called him sixteen times and texted three times more. Mandy has sent a few texts too and Ian definitely wants to get around to answering those but he needs to conserve battery life so just slips the cell back into his pocket. He could do with getting a change of clothes too. The guys outside the club probably thought he was in fancy dress and coming home from a party but they might not like it if he shows up dressed the same tonight.

He counts his cash and is pleasantly surprised to find a crumpled ten dollar bill amongst the change. Well he’s got entire outfits for less at Good Will and happily sips his coffee thinking that he probably doesn’t even need to get shoes. His military issue boots are actually kind of sexy.

The word sexy makes him think of Mickey and he blows a quiet raspberry between his lips. He wonders what sex between him and Svetlana is like and figures it is probably amazing looking but pretty hollow. Mickey is gay. Ian knows that as surely as he knows that he is gay himself. Mickey kicked him in the face last time Ian outright called him on it but that was just Mickey. You push him too far he’s gonna lash out. Like a mean cat. You get those crazy cat people who love all cats no matter how much the fuckers hiss and scratch and pretend to hate having their head stroked. That’s Ian. He’s a crazy Mickey person. He loves Mickey no matter how badly he acts out and that’s just the way it is.

He wonders if Mickey feels a little bit the same. He thinks he must do because not many people drive across state to pick up someone they don’t care about and more than that, the way Mickey looked at him when they said good night … Yeah. He loves Ian. He probably doesn’t really want to admit it but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

Ian finishes his drink, leaves the cash on the table and heads over to the charity store. He manages to get a pair of decent fitting jeans and a long sleeved navy tee that looks like its only been worn a couple of times and even has enough left over for one of the rucksacks which hang above the counter. He gets changed in the fitting room and bids the elderly lady behind the counter a cheery goodbye.

His phone beeps in his pocket and Ian makes a pained face. The battery. Shit. It’s just after one, the Alibi will be open and actually if Ian remembers right, Kev has the same cell! Perfect! He can probably leave a message with someone for Fiona too and maybe for Mickey too, though Mickey tends to drink at home cause it’s cheaper.

Ah well. One thing at a time.

*

Mickey is in no fucking mood to haggle over prices or agreed liberties and after he breaks a john’s fingers for getting a bit too rough with the girls, Kev suggests he take a break.

“They’re women, not fuckin’ punching bags! Fucker looks like he could do with joining a god damn gym too, maybe then he’ll learn the difference!”

Mickey yells the last word after the hunched and scurrying figure leaving the bar.

“Thanks! We welcome your custom and patronage!”

Kev waves with a desperate smile, his other hand wrapped in the back of Mickey’s shirt.

“Get the fuck off me, Jolly Green!”

Mickey glares and Kev lets go, stepping back behind the bar with a frustrated sigh

“Damn it, Mickey. You can’t just go around breaking customers fingers. It’s not good for our reputation.”

“What fuckin’ reputation?”

“Our reputation! You know? Like, the friendliest brothel in Chicago.”

Kev holds up his hands as if seeing the words in lights and Mickey wrinkles his nose disdainfully

“That ain’t our reputation, man. Our reputation is crappy brothel with half-asleep Russian whores in a shitty pub.”

“Ah, no, that,”

Kev grins

“is our actuality. Yeah, V told me about it. Our reputation is what people thing of us.”

“I know what a god damn reputation is. Apparently you don’t. Friendly? Where the fuck do see friendliness around here?”

“I smile all the time! I’m smiling right now!”

Kev points at his exaggerated, toothy grin but Mickey remains steadfastly unimpressed as he takes a seat at the bar.

“And you look like a fucking retard.”

He snarks, gesturing to the beer pump impatiently. Kev rolls his eyes at the younger man.

“Whatever. Just stop assaulting the customers.”

“How many times did I warn him, huh?”

“Did you warn him?”

Kev asks, frowning as he pulls Mickey a pint.

“Yes I fucking warned him! I said ‘If you touch my girls again, I’m gonna break your fingers.’.”

“Right, but then you just … broke his fingers. I mean, it’s not a warning if you do the thing you said you’d do if they do the thing that you told them to not do before they do the thing ...”

Kev slows down and trails off, confused. He scrunches his nose and then flaps a hand dismissively, passing Mickey his beer.

“Look, point is, we’re not making enough cash and I bet that guy won’t be back now.”

“Sure he will, I broke his fuckin’ hand. How is he gonna jerk off, huh?”

Mickey sighs, slouching over his drink and idly flicking a stray peanut at a semi-passed out regular who doesn’t notice it bounce off his belly.

“What’s got you all pissed off anyway?”

“Gallaghers.”

Mickey spits the word and Kev nods in understanding.

“They can be a handful, that’s for sure. Which one is it?”

“Red head.”

“Which one?”

“They got more than one of those?”

Mickey feels momentarily cheered at the thought of a strapping, mystery Gallagher with flaming hair and no urge to send Mickey to an early grave with worry.

“Ian and little Debbie.”

“Fuck.”

Mickey sips his drink and gazes moodily into the middle distance, his hopes dashed. Kev dries up a couple of glasses and then glances back at Mickey, taking pity on the kid’s morose expression.

“So unless little Debs stole your Barbie, I’m guessing it’s Ian?”

Mickey looks shiftily along the bar and then nods.

“He took off and I don’t know where to fuckin’ look.”

“Didn’t he go right after you got married?”

“What the fuck would me being married have to do with Gallagher leaving?”

Mickey snaps hotly, his eyes locking onto Kev who is reminded of that bit in the Terminator when Arnie is deciding whether to kill something or not by scanning it. He holds up his hands and shakes his head a fraction.

“Nothing, just a … timeline of local events for the community calendar of my mind. Ian left around that time and no ones seen him since.”

Mickey arranges his face in a ‘what the fuck’ expression but seems about as mollified as he ever is by anything. Deciding that he isn’t about to get his teeth knocked out, Kev wipes down the bar and asks

“Does he owe you money?”

“Nah, It’s … it’s nothin’ like that.”

Mickey runs a hand through his hair and presses his lips together clearly not about to shed any further light on the situation. Kev is always a little cautious of Mickey, the kid has a temper to rival his father, but he doesn’t actually dislike him at all. He thinks it must be kind of hard actually, being gay and married to a whore and then Ian taking off. It’s a lot for a young man to have going on. Kev reaches across and claps a hand on Mickey’s shoulder lightly

“I wouldn’t worry about it, man. Gallagher’s are like bad pennies, just hang out, play it cool and eventually one will find you whether you want them to or not. Trust me. I have the experience that comes from years of living next door to that family. They’re all insane.”

Mickey grunts his assent at this, he knows his family is fucked up but they’re fucked up in a normal way. The Gallagher’s are something else.

“Don’t know how you fuckin’ survived it.”

“Me neither.”

Kev adds a shot of something brown and strong smelling to Mickey’s budding drinks collection and clinks his own shot glass against the younger man’s, saluting his struggle before slamming it back down his throat.

Mickey watches the bulging muscles of Kev’s neck and arms and wonders briefly if everything about Kev’s anatomy is as large and thick as the man himself. This is the first thought to actually make Mickey smile all day, and he gives a little laugh at his bitchy-horny inner monologue, which Kev mistakes for him being cheered up.

“There you go! Booze, man. It’s always the answer.”

Mickey grins and downs his shot and then picks up his beer as the Alibi door opens and Kev practically explodes in excitement

“BAD PENNY!”

He yells, grabbing Mickey and making him spill beer all over his lap.

“The fu…”

Mickey looks up furiously at Kev and then turns to the door

“Gallagher!”

Ian’s initial smile turns to confused frown and then wide eyed panic as Mickey launches off the bar stall and runs at him. Ian doesn’t stick around to find out why, he just legs it out of the bar and along the road.

“WHAT DID I DO?”

He yells over his shoulder, leaping over trash bags and dodging around an old couple who glare at Ian but leap aside at whatever they read in the face of the young man chasing him.

“MICKEY? WHAT’S GOING ON?”

Ian rounds a corner and feels fingers briefly grip his backpack, then let go again as Mickey stumbles over a glass bottle that rolls under his boot before breaking.

“You fuckin’ ...”

Ian loses the rest of the sentence in the wind rushing past his ears. He should probably stop running and face the music but he has a feeling the music is going to be painful and maybe a little bit bruising, so he keeps running until he rounds the next corner and comes up against a chain link fence. He leaps at it and gets a fairly decent grip to haul himself over but a rough hand grabs the back of his pants, dragging him back.

“Don’t you fucking dare!

Mickey growls, yanking at Ian for all he is worth. Ian clings on as best he can until Mickey finally just jumps, forcing his full weight onto the taller boy, breaking his grip and dropping them both down into the gutter.

Mickey recovers first and clambers on top of Ian, straddling him suddenly uncertain whether he means to strangle him, punch him or kiss him. They’re both breathing heavily but despite Mickey having developed a pretty decent sprint, Ian is still fitter and manages to roll Mickey off with a grunt of effort. They grapple in the dirt, Ian slapping in ineffective token effort at Mickey’s back and Mickey making a pretty big show of trying to get on top which suddenly strikes Ian as hilarious and he starts laughing, loud, rich peals of amusement that cut through Mickey’s red mist of conquest.

“What?”

“You trying to get on top of me! First … first time for everything I guess.”

Ian cackles and Mickey lands his first genuine blow, giving Ian a dead leg.

“Ow! Fuck! What the Hell, Mickey?”

Mickey sits up, panting and wraps his arms around his knees, glaring at Ian

“Where the fuck did you go, huh?”

“When?”

“This morning, dumbass! I woke up to a booby-trapped coffee cup beside my bed and you’d vanished into thin air. I’ve been calling you all fuckin’ morning and no answer ...”

Mickey breaks off and grabs a full lung full of foul smelling air, blue eyes trained on Gallagher for any sign that he might try to make a break for it.

“I had shit to do, but listen; I found a job so it’s all good!”

“What job?”

“A bar job I think … it’s in Boys Town.”

“The fuck? You ain’t working in one of those fuckin’ pervert palaces. You’ll get raped in the toilet by some banker off his tits on coke and Viagra.”

Mickey forgets his irritation over Ian’s disappearance to focus on his new and greater irritation with Ian for wanting to serve himself up on a platter for the lower class of lecherous old queers that frequent this side of the city.

“Why not? I gotta work and I heard that the pay is incredible.”

“No.”

Mickey says flatly and Ian juts his jaw out stubbornly.

“I wasn’t asking your permission, Mickey.”

“Good, cause you ain’t getting it.”

They stare at each other, both sat in the dirt and each doing their best to conceal the seriously unwanted erections that are fighting against the stretch of denim. Ian breaks eye contact first and sighs, looking down at his hands.

“You’re not my boyfriend, Mick. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

Mickey looks away, squinting down the alley to avoid having to look at Ian. He licks his lip and rolls his jaw, finally looking back toward Ian through the sweep of partially lowered lashes

“You coming back?”

“Back to what?”

Ian asks and Mickey is at a loss as to whether that question is actually as loaded as it sounds.

“To the house. Me. Us.”

Mickey says eventually and Ian sighs heavily, shaking his head with the ghost of a smile

“Back to your homophobic father’s house, where your pregnant wife shares your bed and I sleep on the sofa so no one will find out you’re gay?”

Ian taps long fingers against his backpack. He knows the look that comes across Mickey’s face as he speaks, he’s preparing himself for the worst whilst secretly hoping for the best and Ian wants to give him everything but he needs to preserve his self-respect, at least a little, no matter how much he loves Mickey Milkovich. If he’s going to be a bit on the side then he’s going to make sure he gets something for himself too.

“I guess it depends.”

“On what?”

Mickey looks round suspiciously and Ian shrugs but fixes Mickey with a determinedly firm expression.

“You. Sucking my dick. Whenever I want.”

“Fuck off.”

Mickey’s brows lower as he squirms uncomfortably beneath Ian’s mischievous green gaze.

“Fine. Then if you want to hang out you can come and see me at my workplace.”

Ian begins to stand up, dusting his palms off on his jeans and Mickey realises that he is about to lose Ian Gallagher again. If it was anyone else asking this shit of him … but it’s not anyone else. It’s Ian. His Ian.

Mickey is terrified of all the things the redhead makes him feel and all the things being around him makes Mickey want but beyond the confusion there is the absolutely all-consuming desire to comply and just give Ian whatever he wants. Mickey wants to please him, he wants to feel Ian’s dick in his mouth, and he wants him to be in as much of his life as it is possible for him to be. Mickey wants those things more than he has ever wanted anything in his life.

“I’ll do it.”

He rasps, looking up at Ian who simply raises his eyebrows nonchalantly at Mickey and says

“Do what?”

“Don’t make me fuckin’ say it, man.”

Mickey can hear the faint pleading tone in his voice and apparently Ian hears it too because his stony countenance softens into a gentle smirk

“Suck my dick. Whenever I want.”

The world shrinks down to nothingness around them as Mickey’s tongue rolls across his bottom lip. His life is so messed up and Ian’s ultimatum is making his blood pound in his ears like he’s just had a knock-out blow to the head, which he supposes in a way he has.

And he could say no, he could walk away but Mickey is tired of pretending that he doesn’t want this when the truth is that he is desperate for it. For the feel of Ian pushing into him, his lips and teeth working across Mickey’s body and his nose brushing against Mickey’s own as they kiss in the afterglow of their pleasure. He wants it all and he wants Ian to demand it of him. He wants Ian to see him in the way that only Ian has ever seen him, to look at him like he used to before it all went wrong.

“Fuck it.”

He breathes and stands up, boxing Ian swiftly backwards between two skips out of sight of any casual passer-by. The grin on Ian’s face is creating a flame of want in Mickey’s chest and by the time he yanks Gallagher’s jeans open and releases his cock into the sunlight, they are both more than ready.

Large hands tangle in thick black hair and push Mickey down to his knees. Ian tips his head back against the rough brickwork and thrusts his hips forward. Mickey moans scratchily, a raw guttural sound that vibrates deliciously against Ian’s dick and elicits a noise all of Ian’s own, caught somewhere between a sob and a happy laugh.

Mickey trails his fingertips through the bright red of Ian’s pubic hair. It has been so long since he felt this whole and he is pining for more.

Mickey chances a glance upwards and finds Ian looking down at him with that look in his eyes that makes Mickey feel warm from the tips of his ears to the pit of his gut and lower still.

He fumbles with his own fly and wraps his hand tightly around himself. It doesn’t take much to get him there but he holds back until Ian grunts and clenches his ass, pushing forward once more and then, as Ian fills his mouth, Mickey closes his eyes and let’s go.


	8. Chapter 8

As the boy’s dress, Ian mulls over what the fuck just happened, a goofy smile on his face that has Mickey zeroing in on him with a stern expression within moments

“Knock it off.”

“What?”

“The face. Quit looking like you just got ...”

“Sucked off in an alley?”

“I’m gonna crack your other fucking molar in a minute.”

Mickey warns and Ian does his best to wipe the smile off his face, not because he thinks Mickey means it, but because he looks embarrassed and Ian doesn’t want him to feel that way.

“Do you wanna head back to your place?”

“Yeah but I gotta take care of something back at work.”

“Work? Where do you work?”

Ian gives him a surprised look and Mickey shrugs self-consciously.

“The Alibi … well … technically, I don’t work there but my girls do.”

“Your …”

Ian furrows his brow, giving Mickey a tight lipped and slightly disapproving smile

“Are you a pimp?”

“Yeah. It’s a long fucking story, basically I tried to get Svet’s old pimp to give her and the other hookers a pay rise, but it turns out you can get Russian whores for like two a penny, so I set up my own rub’n’tug with Kev.”

“KEV?”

Ian is laughing now and Mickey returns his smile despite himself.

“He’s the worst pimp in the world, but he has the space, I have the whores … it’s fine. It works out.”

“Wait, are you pimping your wife?”

“Uh ...”

“Your pregnant wife?”

“Fuck off, okay? Someone has to pimp her. Might as well be me.”

“Oh man. Mick, that is nasty.”

Ian’s shoulders are shaking with repressed laughter and Mickey shoves him playfully

“You just made me suck your dick in an alley surrounded by trash. Don’t be telling me what’s nasty.”

Ian mimes a kick and Mickey jostles him again and then they’re running back toward the Alibi, laughing and dodging good natured blows. Mickey slows down as he approaches the bar, not wanting the regulars to see him acting weird but he gives Ian a soft look that makes Ian feel utterly at peace with the word.

“Hey! You didn’t kill each other! Congrats!”

Kev beams at them and enfolds Ian in a hug before giving him a drink.

“Welcome home, man.”

*

  


Ian decides he is going to take the job at the White Swallow. He wants to do it and he needs the money. Mickey isn’t happy about it but in the face of Ian’s stubborn-ass nature, he figures there isn’t a lot he can really do.

However, Mickey does insist that he to go with Ian to the bar to check shit out. Ian puts up a bigger fuss than Mickey had expected but Mickey is resolute.

Ian doesn’t want them thinking he has a pimp or needs a baby sitter or is too stupid to work out his own deals. Mickey assures him that he appreciates all those points, but he is still coming.

“Seriously? How would you like it if I came with you to check on the girls?”

Ian cries, pacing back and forth across the living room.

“If you wanna try and negotiate fuckin’ smoke breaks in Russian with a bunch of pissed off whores, be my guest, man.”

Mickey grins, combing his damp hair back from his forehead and giving Ian a wink that makes his lover scowl in frustration.

“They’re gonna think you’re my pimp.”

“I’m not your pimp, but I am A pimp and I know how this shit works. You’re not goin’ in there to just be shared around a bunch of old AIDs junkies with grey pubes and nose hairs and ripped off at the end of the night...”

Ian grabs Mickey’s wrist and pushes him back into the sofa, straddling his hips firmly and kissing him to shut him up.

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know. But I want to see the joint and get the name of your boss so that if shit does go down, I know who’s throat to slit first.”

Ian smiles, unable to be annoyed when Mickey is being protective of him, no matter how bloody inconvenient it is.

“We’ve been back together for three hours and you’re slitting throats for me already? I’ve got you whipped, Milkovich.”

Ian teases, switching to small biting kisses along Mickey’s jaw and down his throat.

“Not in the fuckin’ slightest, bitch.”

Mickey gives Ian a wide, cheeky grin and stands, taking Ian with him and landing him on his feet before turning around and bending over the sofa, dropping his pants.

“Get on me again before I whoop your ass.”

“Jesus. You’re not gonna be able to walk.”

“Big words, Gallagher. Put your money where your … ah!”

He breaks off as Ian puts something much more appreciated than money into him, exactly where his mouth had been minutes before.

*


	9. White Swallow.

As it turns out, the second stipulation, that Mickey go along as many nights as he can to keep an eye on things is blown out of the water when Mickey and Ian arrive at the White Swallow.

When Ian asks for Roger, they are ushered into a velvet lined little cubicle office with no window and a heavy smell of sweat and cheap cologne, Roger points at each in turn and says

“Dancer for Red. Bar for Black.”

before going back to his phone.

“Excuse me?”

Mickey cocks his head to the side and Roger rolls his eyes towards him again with an look that is meant to convey importance and a lack of time for Mickey’s bullshit, but comes across as a little petulant and not much else.

“You’re not a dancer, sweetie. You’re short as shit and stocky. But you have a pretty face and nice shoulders and that’s all people need to see behind a bar.”

Ian’s hand on Mickey’s chest is the only thing that saves Roger’s life.

“Damn right I’m not a dancer, neither is he.”

“Oh. Well I only have one position going for bar so...”

“So fuckin’ give it to him.”

Mickey jerks his thumb at Ian and Roger smiles thinly before shaking his head.

“No.”

Ian looks pleadingly at Mickey who manages to keep his mouth shut but gives Roger a look that speaks volumes.

“If I dance, can Mickey tend bar? Can we have the same shifts?”

“Are you boyfriends or some shit?”

Roger drawls, completely oblivious to the atmosphere in his office. Ian gets the impression that Roger spends a lot of his time being oblivious to stuff.

“You callin’ me gay?”

Mickey asks in that softly menacing tone of voice that always raises the hair on Ian’s arms but poor, oblivious Roger grins wolfishly at him and curls his upper lip in disdain

“Please. Honey, you make Justin Beiber look straight.”

Mickey nods, shrugs, glances apologetically at Ian, who nods as if to say ‘fair enough’, and then grabs the back of Roger’s head and plunges him face first onto the desk.

“Listen to me, mother fucker. My friend wants to tend the bar ...”

“Actually, Mick, I do kind of want to dance.”

“You … What? No.”

Ian gives Mickey the chin and Mickey closes his eyes striving for patience.

“Ian, man, why? I don’t …”

“You let your wife whore herself out, you can tolerate me dancing.”

“You have a wife?”

Roger mumbles, looking miserably at the blood his fingertips have revealed is trickling from his nose.

“Yes I have a wife, douchebag.”

Mickey snaps and then realising that Ian isn’t going to let this go, runs his free hand over his face and scowls.

“Alright fine, my friend wants to dance and I’m going to tend bar on his shifts and only his shifts. When he goes, I go and if you or any other asshole touches him, I’m gonna burn this shithole to the ground with you inside it.”

“Why the Hell would I hire you? Either of you?”

Mickey smiles grimly and pats Roger’s cheek, hard.

“Because you’re fucked if you don’t, man. Now I got shit to do, so our first shift is gonna start at 10pm tonight. ‘iight?”

As they leave the office, Ian lets out the breath he had been holding and grins sheepishly

"That was a different kind of job interview, huh?"

Mickey simply winks at him

"Always bring a pimp, man."

*

Ian collects their uniforms from the guy at the reception and smiles happily, clutching the package to his chest all the way to the car. Despite the lot being almost completely empty, Mickey had insisted on parking in the furthest corner and under a tree in the hopes that no one would recognise his vehicle.

“This is going to be amazing.”

Ian skips around him, practicing his moves, hips gyrating lavishly. Mickey gives him a fleeting look but then returns his gaze to the tarmac.

“Uh huh. I’m gonna end up doin’ time for murder and you’re gonna get gang banged by Homo-Hefner and his toy-boy bunnies. It’ll be a laugh riot.”

Mickey’s tone is unusually harsh, and Ian realises that he is in a genuinely shitty mood, not just his usual irritable self.

“What’s up?”

“I’m tired man, I got this shit to do tonight and I don’t want old creeps eyeing you up and before I can even worry about that, I gotta go kick Svetlana out and that’s gonna be a whole thing …”

Ian grabs Mickey’s arm and turns him round to face him in the deserted parking lot.

“What?”

“She’s gonna be pissed and I don’t give a shit, but it’s just … it ain’t gonna be the highlight of my day.”

Mickey looks genuinely upset at the prospect of it and Ian frowns in utter confusion, trying to meet Mickey’s eyes which seem to focus everywhere except on Ian.

“Why are you kicking her out?”

“So you can move in.”

“Aww Mickey …”

Ian smiles warmly and wraps his arms around Mickey’s shoulders, enfolding him in a brief hug before he is firmly pushed away. Ian rolls his eyes but refrains from pointing out that Mickey has engaged in far more risqué practices in public today than receiving a hug.

“You can’t kick a pregnant lady out. We can talk to her.”

“And say what? ‘You and the brat stay on that side of the bed, we’ll bang quietly on this side’?”

“We don’t bang quietly.”

Ian smirks and Mickey’s lip twitches but doesn’t quite form a smile.

“Well fuckin’ exactly!”

“What about your Dad’s room?”

“Ew. No. I can’t … Get that look off your face. The answer is no.”

“What about Svet having that room and we have your room?”

Mickey chews his lip anxiously and Ian slowly begins walking backwards toward the car, drawing Mickey after him like the moon and tide.

“It’s no good, man. People are gonna talk …”

“What people? Mandy already knows. Svetlana clearly knows. Iggy and Joey are hardly ever there…”

Ian leans against the car bonnet as Mickey unlocks the doors and folds his arms knowingly, he acknowledges the tense set of his lover’s shoulders and the tight set of his lips but Ian holds his ground.

“Mick, we can do this. Your dad is in prison, no one else cares …”

“I care.”

Mickey snaps, looking up at Ian with more fear than anger.

“If you don’t want me to kick Svetlana out, can we stay with your family? They don’t seem to give a fuck about … this.”

“We could, but I share a room with Carl and Liam.”

“Fuck.”

Mickey looks like he is about to smash his own car window so Ian places himself firmly between Mickey and the glass.

“We can do this, Mickey. I swear to you we can. It’s going to work out this time. I can feel it.”

“Yeah? How do you see that happening?”

“We can figure it out, okay? I have so many ideas – good ideas, Mick. I just know this is going to work. Svetlana might not like it but she’ll have to accept it. We’ve got this.”

Ian is looking so intently at him, so full of certainty and courage that Mickey can almost believe it can be that easy. That love, even a stupid, reckless and dangerous love like theirs, can find a way through all the shit that gets heaped on top of it … He shakes his head and steeples his fingers over his mouth, completely at a loss of what else to do but follow Ian’s lead. Shit. It’s been the theme of his fucking day. Why stop now?


	10. Acts of defiance.

The conversation with Svetlana goes about as well as Mickey predicted, with the added joy of a claw hammer being waved around the room. She only calms down when Mickey physically carries her into the bedroom and kicks the door shut in Ian’s face.

“YOU ARE FAGGOT AND PUSSY JUST LIKE YOUR FATHER CALLS YOU! YOU ARE USELESS PIECE OF …”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

Mickey had done a pretty decent job of not yelling but he raises his voice now, louder and harsher than Svetlana is used to being directed at her and she is suddenly very aware that they are alone in a room together and he is very close and very angry. She knows what men can do when they are too close and too angry. She shuts up.

“Listen, no one is makin’ you leave okay. You just … you move into my Dad’s room, you got a bigger bed and a decent TV in there.”

“I like this room. It is close to the toilet and I pee a lot. You go into Daddy’s room with Orange one.”

Mickey’s hair is standing up in all directions from the tussle of getting Svetlana into the room and the amount of times he has run his hands through it. At this comment he pushes it sharply back from his forehead and his eyebrows raise to meet it.

“What? No! And fuck you, it’s not … we’re not … will you just … didn’t you say ‘love, honour and obey’? Fuckin’ obey!”

“No.”

The word drips with contempt and Mickey turns away, burying his face in his hands in frustration and thinking that he should have done a better job of making her frightened of him. The bedroom door creaks open and Ian slips in, arms folded as he leans nonchalantly back, shutting them all in together.

“I know you’re angry but this could be a good thing, me being here.”

He offers, ignoring Mickey’s furiously pleading eyes and Svetlana’s cold appraising stare.

“Not a good fuckin’ time, man.”

Mickey glares at him but Ian waves him off with a gesture that makes Mickey curl his fists into his armpits to stop himself knocking the annoying-as-fuck Zen expression from Ian’s face. Svetlana also ignores Mickey, her attention firmly with Ian who seems to be more in control than her husband. Big surprise there.

“He has to look after me and baby. How are you good for that?”

Ian rocks up onto the balls of his feet and then tongues his inner cheek thoughtfully.

“More money in the house. Another person looking out for the kid.”

Ian scratches his chin and then sighs a little dramatically

“But the thing is, I know you keep saying he does, but Mickey doesn’t actually have to do anything for you.”

“Ian…”

Mickey shakes his head and puts a steadying hand out but Ian ignores him again, focussed solely on Svetlana, matching her gaze and speaking in a quiet and even voice.

“Mickey is choosing to take care of you and the baby but he doesn’t have to. Do you know how many kids grow up around here without a mom and a dad living under the same roof? Most of them. Do you know how many pregnant women get chucked out on the street by their boyfriends or husbands? A lot.”

The way Svetlana looks away from him tells Ian she knows exactly how the story goes for many women and even though Mickey is looking uncomfortable and is clearly utterly irate, Ian pushes his advantage.

“You bash my head in with a claw hammer, how long do you think your place here will last? You stab Mickey in his sleep, what do you think will happen to you and the baby? You need us more than we need you.”

Mickey has never seen this side of Ian. Cold manipulation and veiled threats … Jesus. If Mickey wasn’t so damn aroused he might stop to consider whether or not this new and strange change of character was linked to all of Ian’s other odd behaviour but as it is, Mickey just wants Ian to fuck him into oblivion just as soon as this shit is over.

Svetlana, completely unaware of the state of her husband, with a look in his eye that her professionalism would have recognised immediately, tosses her head in Mickey’s direction briefly but speaks to Ian.

“This is his baby. His and mine. He has responsibility, yes?”

“Sure. And it would be great if we can all get along, for the sake of the baby. I’m Mickey’s friend, you’re his wife. I need a place to stay and I’m willing to contribute to the house and the baby. Do you want to push for an alternative?”

Ian holds his hands out palm upward in a gesture of peace, before slowly extending one palm toward her. Svetlana looks at it, then at Mickey, awkwardly gnawing at his thumb knuckle, and finally shakes Ian’s hand firmly.

“I get this room. You will change diapers. No funny business in front of baby.”

With that she breezes past them both, her heels clacking across the floorboards toward the front door.

The moment the door crashes behind her, Mickey moves on Ian. He tries to move the taller man toward the bed but Ian stoops and wraps a forearm under Mickey’s ass, lifting him up.

“We have to go to work in thirty minutes. I’m not wasting time fucking you in here.”

“What? Where … Oh shit! No! Gallagher! IAN!”

Mickey shoves at Ian’s shoulder, but is forced to duck as Ian carries him through the doorway of the master bedroom. It’s cluttered with clothes, empty booze bottles, beer cans, porno mags and weapons. It smells of stale sweat and the curtains are half hanging off the wall. Ian beams at Mickey as if it is the Ritz.

“Here.”

“I can’t, man … He’d fuckin’ kill me.”

“He’d kill you anyway. C’mon. Fuck me, Mick. Right here. Just think how much it’d piss him off.”

Mickey is utterly torn, on the one hand he is paralysed with fear at the thought of his father’s reaction but also … also … also … Ian is looking at him with that sweet, playfully wicked smile and his eyes are shining with mischief… Mickey grins back at him and starts to unbutton his shirt.

“You’re fuckin’ crazy.”

“Crazy about you. Come here.”

Ian wants this for himself but he wants it for Mickey more. One very sensational ‘fuck you’ to the Milkovich patriarch, an act of defiance, a small secret between the two of them, a little liberation … Ian wants all those things for Mickey. Ian usually likes to take his time, he likes to make sure Mickey is properly ready, comfortable and soothed but he knows Mickey won’t want that now. He needs it like the first few times they ever had sex, before Mickey was willing to admit he even enjoyed it.

Ian prepares his lover brusquely with lube and bends him firmly over the edge of the bed. Mickey’s eyes are darting around the room and his head keeps twitching toward the door but he isn’t trying to stop either and with a deep breath, Ian takes control.

“You want me to fuck you?”

He demands, thrusting home hard enough to make Mickey arch his back and come up onto his toes, gasping.

“You want this? Huh? You want it hard?”

As he speaks, Ian slams into Mickey, feeling the burn of tightness spreading along the length of his dick and knowing that Mickey is feeling it more keenly still. He eases off, just a fraction, and Mickey makes an impatient noise and pushes his hips back.

“Tell me what you want, Milkovich. Fuckin’ say it.”

Ian growls, biting Mickey’s shoulder and slapping his right ass cheek hard enough to leave a brief white outline of Ian’s hand before it blushes the same shade of pink as Mickey’s full lower lip, twisted up between his teeth. Mickey tears his eyes from the empty doorway, away from the ghosts in his mind and bites the words off as best he can.

“Fuck me. Harder. Fuck me harder!”

He gasps as Ian follows his instruction and with the breaking of his silence it is like the flood gates open. Ian laughs delightedly as Mickey grabs fistfuls of greasy quilt and plants his feet squarely, slamming himself back, grinding down and barking out orders as if his life depends on them.

“Fuckin’ ram me, Gallagher! All of it! Now, bitch!”

Ian slips a little more lube onto his fingers and applies it at the next stroke, the extra liquid cool and slick between them making both men shudder in pleasure.

Mickey is grunting and sweating and absolutely revelling in the filth of the room and the thought of the old man’s outrage. He thinks of people who fuck on train-tracks and cliff edges and he understands them completely. This is dangerous and stupid and he absolutely fucking loves it.

“Grab my hair.”

Mickey growls, tilting his neck back, exposing the bobbing apple of his throat, fine black stubble visible just beneath the surface of his pale skin. Ian takes hold of a fistful of it and pulls tightly. It is the undoing of Mickey who makes a strangled noise, closer to a laugh than a cry, and releases his load all over his father’s favourite shirt. He imagines Terry finding it. *Guess what we’ve been doin’, Daddy?* Mickey’s smile as he comes down from the high of his orgasm is the brightest Ian has ever seen it.


	11. White Swallow 2

As they dress, Ian gingerly picks up the XL khaki tee with a black eagle shown on the breast pocket and turns to Mickey who is tucking his own shirt into his jeans.

“You think we should wash this?”

“Nah, let the old fucker find it like that.”

Mickey smirks and Ian happily tosses the vile thing into a corner of the room. They find clean-ish bedding in the closet and toss Terry’s sheets in the washing machine. Ian wants to chuck them out of the window or burn them but Mickey thinks that is a waste and so they compromise on the hottest wash cycle possible.

“OK, ready for work?”

Mickey calls, straightening the collar of his shirt in the bathroom mirror.

“I think so … how’s this?”

Ian steps into the bathroom wearing the tiniest pair of sequin shorts Mickey as ever seen, a fitted black tank top and a pair of gold sneaker style shoes.

“What the fuck is that?”

“Uniform. Here … bar staff wear the reverse.”

Ian tosses Mickey a silver sequin vest and pair of black hot pants that Mickey catches with a look on his face as if the outfit just insulted his dead mother and took his last smoke.

“Fuck. Off.”

*

In the end, Mickey works his first shift at The White Swallow with the silver vest beneath his black button down, which after a tussle with Ian in the car, he agrees to leave open, and jeans, the shorts left contemptuously on the edge of his bathroom sink at home.

Roger gives him dirty looks and pointedly stares at the battered old Levi’s but the clients seem to really like being spoken to like shit, thinking it is some sort of ‘bit’ and the tips Mickey pulls in for the communal pot are pretty impressive.

Ian is an immediate hit. He is requested within minutes of arriving awkwardly on the stage, black and silver tinsel added to his costume. Although his first dance is a little clumsy and his palms are sweating, the guy who picks him is equally nervous, and so visibly not a threat that after a minute or two, even Mickey quits watching them and actually serves a couple of drinks whilst Ian finishes up.

The music is constant and the lights blinding. The smoke machine whirs and there is a constant crush of bodies. Without the barrier of the bar between himself and the patrons, Mickey wouldn’t have lasted an hour. Ian is in his element, dancing even when no one is paying him to do so. A couple of the other dancers offer him some coke and he indulges, but only half what they offer him, the other half he carries over to Mickey, who frowns but snorts it without comment.

It is shaping up to be one of the most fun nights of Ian’s life. He loves the attention, the feeling of being a star, and better still is being able to look over the heads of the men who cluster around him and lock eyes with the one person who actually matters. And Ian can always lock eyes with Mickey. It is like there is no one else in the room for the brunette, despite being surrounded by beautiful bodies of all shapes and sizes, his gaze is either on the drinks he is pouring or Ian.

“Curtis, you got another client.”

Ian nods to the bouncer and smiles at the older gentleman who is hovering nearby. He beckons Ian with a crooked finger and Ian nudges him down onto a chair, beginning his dance.

The guy is not shy about what he likes and although he doesn’t touch Ian, his fingers hover millimetres from his skin and Ian feels the first stirrings of unease. The dance passes and Ian smiles but the man, slips another few notes into the waistband of his shorts and makes a twirling motion with his fingers.

“Keep at it, baby.”

“Uh … okay.”

Ian starts again and feels knuckles graze the curve of his ass.

“Hey ...”

“Sorry, sorry. Just … do your thing.”

Ian grinds, distancing himself as far as he can without failing to do his job. The lights roll over in white sweeping arcs and he chances a glance over to the bar. Mickey is bobbing his head and weaving his shoulders to the music, not quite dancing but definitely closer to it than he’d ever like to admit. He’s free-pouring vodka into a tall glass and there are four men lustily watching every move he makes, although Mickey seems completely oblivious. It is such a happy sight Ian actually breaks into a proper smile.

“Oh, that’s better, baby.”

A hand settles very firmly on Ian’s thigh and he jerks back to his senses with a thud. The coke has made his hands shaky, but he doesn’t hesitate in slapping the guys arm away.

“Keep your hands off me.”

“Now, now. Don’t get moody.”

Another few notes join the others in Ian’s waistband but this time, thumb and forefinger tweak the slender flesh of Ian’s hips and stroke up his ribs. The security isn’t close by and the music is too loud to try yelling. Ian pushes himself back but a firm grip on his ass cheek stops him.

“I paid my money. Give me my dance.”

“No.”

Ian looks around, frantically. He can’t hit a customer on his first night but the guy is being a prick and Ian is starting to panic torn between his urge to get him off and his eagerness to do a good job.

*

Mickey is tweaking like a little bitch. He knows powders don’t agree with him but Ian was doing it so of course he did it too. Now everything is going a bit too fast and a bit too loud and he feels a bit shaky.

“Hey bad boy, my friend says you’re the rudest lit...”

“Fuck off, Dick-Cheese.”

Mickey doesn’t do much more than glance up from the beer he is pouring to look at the latest bearded prick to try and get an insult from him. There is a group of assholes who seem to think Mickey being rude to them is a private game and that’s fine by Mickey. He’s been a prick to pretty much every customer all evening, but these guys love it and are tipping for the privilege so why not?

“Aww. That one wasn’t very good!”

“Why don’t you fuck off before...”

Mickey trails off, looking over the guys shoulder. Ian is on some grey-hair’s lap, panic written across his features. His eyes are darting around and as Mickey is trying to work out whether this is some weird fuckin’ part of a dance, a hand slides up Ian’s chest, starkly pale against the black cotton.

“Mother fucker.”

Mickey slams the half-full glass on the counter and pushes roughly past the other servers, exiting the bar. A drunk blonde slips into Mickey’s path and tries to entice him into a dance.

“Move.”

Mickey snaps and shoves the guy out of the way without giving him time to comply of his own accord. The pale hand is on Ian’s hip now and Mickey’s lip curls upwards, his blood fired up from a mix of narcotics and jealousy. He reaches the plush settee within five steps and wraps his hand roughly in thick silver hair, yanking back roughly. The toupee comes away in Mickey’s hand and Ian’s client leaps to his feet shrieking. Mickey flings the hairpiece away from himself with a noise of disgust, hastily wiping his hand down his pant leg and grimacing as he watches it sail away and land somewhere in the dance floor.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

The outraged question reminds Mickey why he stormed over in the first place and he snaps his attention back to his target.

“Gonna ask you the same thing, Grandpa. Touching the talent? That’ll get your ass kicked in here.”

“I … we ...”

“I tell you what, you fuck off right fucking now and that creepy ass wig will be the only thing you lose tonight.”

“You … Do you even work here?”

Mickey spreads his shirt like a comic book hero, proudly displaying his silver sequins.

“Sure do mother fucker. Now you goin’ or am I makin’ you go?”

The guy takes off, and Mickey glares after him, nostrils flared and fists lightly curled until Ian wraps his arms around him,

“My hero!”

Ian purrs, holding him close in the split second before Mickey pulls away.

“The fuck...”

Mickey glares at Ian instinctively and then rubs the tip of his nose, expression softening

“You OK? I can track him down and ...”

Ian gives him an exasperated smile, and leans in close, shouting to be heard over the music

“I’m fine. Forget him. You look really fucking hot in that vest.”

Mickey glances down at himself and hastily does his shirt up, blushing beneath the flashing blue and white lights. Ian stills his hands, covering them with his own. Mickey’s eyes flick down to their joined hands and his expression flits painfully between want and fear. Ian gestures around them calmly

“Mick, no one cares what we do here.”

Mickey looks around uncertainly, following Ian’s gaze, chewing anxiously on his lip. Deciding to try again, Ian leans in to kiss him and Mickey pulls back so violently he almost trips over the settee.

Ian sighs at him and whether it is the coke, the adrenaline or just the thrill of everything about Ian Gallagher that makes him feel like he can maybe, finally, be himself, something deep inside Mickey shifts into place, and taking a deep breath he moves forward in every sense of the word.

The music swells with the instruction to ‘make your move’ as their lips come together and tongues gel, fingers buried in each other’s hair. The kiss is long and deep and when they finally break apart, both of them are breathing heavily.

“Someone touches you again, knock their fuckin’ teeth out or I will.”

Mickey yells over the music and turns on his heel, walking away on legs that feel like rubber. He slips back behind the bar and slams a shot of something clear and throat-burningly alcoholic, a smile plastered to his face that Mickey cannot seem to shake.

“Hey!”

Mickey’s eyes flick to the beardy guy who is back again and the time looking genuinely pissed off.

“You ripped that old dude’s hair off but I just get a lame ‘dick-cheese’ insult? What the fuck, man? You got Daddy issues or something?”

Mickey rolls his neck with a sigh. It’s not going to be as satisfying as messing up the old pervert who touched Ian, but he’s in a good mood already and it’ll do.

Turns out that there is a limit to what even masochistic customers want from their bar staff and Mickey’s first shift at the White Swallow is also his last. Roger offers him a generous severance package in exchange for a promise that Mickey won’t burn the building down. Mickey accepts it and takes three top shelf bottles of liquor into the bargain, paying for them with a promise that he won’t brick the windows either.

Back at the house, Svetlana finds the hot-pants and shimmies into them, delighting in the snug but stretchy fit around the swell of her belly. She has no idea where her husband is but there is clean bedding in Terry’s room and Carrot Boy’s clothes are neatly folded on the end of the bed. She hesitates, considers her options and then goes back into the kitchen, setting another place at the dining table with a shrug.


	12. Steven - or not.

The Milkovich house is probably the calmest it has ever been. Mandy’s boyfriend seems to have practically moved in but they’re seldom there, and Iggy seems to have moved out somewhere, possibly with Angie, Mickey had noticed her hanging around a bit, though the thought of that union makes him shudder. Joey and Jamie have gone on a run in Terry’s place and so for the most part it is just Mickey, Svetlana and Ian.

Ian briefly went back to the Gallagher house to collect some of his things but hasn’t seen much of his family. Fiona has a lot going on, Lip is in college and Debbie and Carl are in the grips of early teenage drama and Ian feels like he is most needed, and wanted, with the Milkovich’s.

The animosity between Svetlana and Ian is short lived. Ian takes an active interest in setting the house up for the arrival of the baby, far more than Mickey does, and with him around, Mickey’s temper is much more even, which pleases Svetlana too. Ian even takes an interest in baby names and this last is what finally pushes him into Svetlana’s affections.

“I like Stanislav for a boy. Though possibly, Yevgeny or Igor. For a girl, Natasha or Ludmila.”

“Ah .. well. Yeah. Definitely unique around South Side.”

Ian smiles his encouragement. They’re sat on the sofa, watching Mickey attack the flat packed crib with a screwdriver in a chaos of wooden slats and Snickers wrappers, the candy a passable cigarette replacement as Svetlana doesn’t want him burning the crib.

“Yeah, unique because they’re fuckin’ weird.”

Mickey chimes in, not looking up at them from his self-imposed Hell.

“Not weird! Good, strong Russian names.”

Svetlana rolls her eyes at him and glances at the instruction sheet in her lap

“You have that piece backwards.”

“You know, this would go a lot fuckin’ easier if you’d just give me those.”

“Written in Russian. You do not read in Russian. You barely read in English.”

“One: Fuck you. Two: The pictures ain’t in fuckin’ Russian, are they? Just let me see them.”

Mickey snatches the paper before Svetlana can say anything further and quickly scans it, glancing at the wooden creation gradually forming around his knees.

“Have you considered any American names?”

Ian asks, shooting Mickey a sympathetic glance

“Ugh. No. I may as well name them for Kardashian nonsense.”

“Well the kid is gonna be American so you might want to give him a name he can spell.”

Mickey grunts, lighting a cigarette despite Svetlana’s frown and letting it dangle from his lips as he experimentally places two pieces of wood together before dismissing them both with a curse.

“He will know his heritage. Maybe Ukrainian middle name?”

“No thanks.”

Mickey shakes his head and Ian gives him a stern look which is missed amid the brunettes concentration on the pictures which really aren’t much help.

“I liked the second one. Eev-Gen-Yay?”

“Yevgeny.”

Svetlana nods and favours Ian with a smile for his effort

“My father’s name.”

“Oh sure, name the kid for the guy who sold you to a pimp for two hundred dollars.”

“It was three hundred, and he had good qualities too.”

Svetlana shoots back, though there is no real effort in the defence.

“Clearly.”

Mickey mumbles around his smoke and then sits back on his heels.

“This piece of shit has got to be missing parts.”

“Take a break?”

Ian suggests and Mickey nods, standing up and frowning down at the crib. It had been a good deal from one of Svetlana’s friends and the only reason he hasn’t smashed the fucker is because he doesn’t want to have to go out and buy another one.

“Yeah. You guys hungry?”

“I’ll make sandwiches. Let Carrot try the baby-bed.”

Mickey shrugs and swaps places with Ian, who has secretly been itching to get in there and do it right. Mickey’s method of emptying the box of screws, slats, legs and other parts into one big pile and then spreading them about, grabbing bits seemingly at random; had agitated Ian to the point of compulsively bouncing his heel up and down on the worn carpet and worrying relentlessly at his nails.

“What would you name the baby?”

Ian asks from the floor, stacking matching pieces and separating out the screws with an almost clinical exactitude.

“What the fuck do I care what the kids called?”

Mickey settles back on the sofa and props his feet up on the coffee table, grabbing the play station remote and starting up Call of Duty.

“It’s your kid!”

“So? Names a fuckin’ name, man. Ungrateful little shit probably won’t even use it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You ever hear me calling myself ‘Mikhailo’? No. I call myself ‘Mickey’.”

“I use ‘Ian’”

“Yeah but it’d probably be breakin’ some sort of weird rule in your head if you didn’t.”

Mickey grins cheekily at Ian, who flips him off with a smile and traces a finger over the images on the instruction sheet.

“C’mon, if you had to pick.”

Ian prompts as Svetlana comes in with a plate of chicken salad sandwiches and unceremoniously sweeps Mickey’s legs off the table.

“I dunno … for a boy … I guess …”

Mickey hesitates, thinking and then nods to himself

“Steven.”

“Steven? What?”

Ian gives a startled laugh. That is a surprisingly normal name, he’d half expected Mickey to want to name the kid ‘Lucky Strike’.

Ian says this, much to Svetlana’s amusement though Mickey just gives him his signature bored expression, and rolls his eyes.

“Why Steven?”

Svetlana asks, smiling gently. She wouldn’t admit it to him, but even a comical conversation about their childs name is something she had not dared to hope for.

“I … You know what? I’m not telling you assholes anything.”

“Aww, c’mon. Don’t pout.”

Ian laughs but Mickey is resolutely turned to the TV, sulking.

“Okay, I’m sorry Mickey, I … Oh my God.”

“What?”

Mickey gives his boyfriend a suspicious side-eyed glance

“It’s Steven Seagal, isn’t it?”

“No. Fuck you. And fuck you too!”

Mickey quips as Svetlana snorts but two high spots of colour are burning his cheeks and Ian claps his hands, laughing.

“It is! You want to name your kid for an inferior Jean Claude...”

“Inferior?! Especially fuck you, man! Steven Seagal is the fuckin’ boss!”

“HA! I knew it!”

“Who is this Steven?”

“You don’t … How can you not know …”

Mickey splutters and Svetlana leans forward, patting his thigh reassuringly

“I do know. I just wanted to see how very important he is to you.”

Ian leans forward and they share a high five as Mickey pauses his game, stands up and collects two sandwiches with as much dignity as he can muster.

“I hope the shitty crib gives you both splinters. Name the kid whatever you want. I’m out.”

“Aww! Mick come back! We need you!”

“Eat shit, Gallagher!”

Mickey’s voice echoes from the bedroom and Svetlana grins at Ian who grins guiltily back

“You picked such a tender man.”

She bites into one of the remaining sandwiches and Ian ducks his head. He knows Mickey’s cover is almost entirely blown (excusing the pun) within the house; everyone who lives there knows that they share a room, and no one is stupid enough to believe that the grunts, gasps and cries are really them lifting weights in the middle of the night. All the same, he doesn’t like to admit that they’re a couple because it would seriously bother Mickey, who is nothing if not an expert at ignoring the elephant in the room. Instead, Ian smiles at Svet and says

“He really likes ‘Above The Law.’ It’s very important to him.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Mickey just likes what he likes.”

The open affection in Ian’s voice makes Svetlana feel ever so slightly misty eyed, something she blames entirely on the pregnancy hormones. Family comes in all shapes and sizes. Maybe hers is a little wonky, but it is family all the same.


	13. Future plans

By the time Svetlana is eight months pregnant, the three of them have settled into a slightly unusual but mostly functional domestic set up. Mickey goes to the club with Ian most nights, or at the very least, swings by to pick him up. Ian occasionally comes out a little wired but never tweaking or so out of it he can’t walk.

The rub’n’tug continues to make a small profit and with Svet being so heavily pregnant, Mickey moves her into a managerial role, which she excels at.

For himself, Mickey begins to look into other enterprises. He knows how to steal shit and how to deal with other thugs, but that is about all he knows how to do and it’s beginning to grate on him. Fucked for life is a fact but it doesn’t have to be quite so starkly obvious. He flips through a couple of job ads but he won’t clean up after people, the thought of their messes makes him feel sick, and he won’t break his back digging ditches or lifting rocks from one pile to another, so that is pretty much legitimate work out of the question for him. Still, when he’s drinking his morning coffee, he skims the pages.

He is going through a wanted ad list when Ian slams into the house, sweaty and pissed off from his run with Fiona.

“Can you fuckin’ believe her?”

Mickey sips his coffee and waits. When Ian is riled up, he doesn’t usually require vocal participation in his rants from anyone else. Sure enough Ian, grabs a glass of water, a banana and throws himself into a chair opposite Mickey, continuing without pause

“She quit high school at, like, fifteen! I did a year more than her and it’s still not enough! You know what she said to me?”

“No, wh...”

“She said I had to go back and finish high-school. Fucking… like I don’t have my own plans!”

Ian shakes he head, flicking Mickey with sweat and earning himself a disapproving eyebrow raise.

“So what are your plans? White Swallow and then ...”

“Then … I don’t know! Welding? Carpentry? Maybe writing? You know the community centre has these subsidised classes, you can learn so much – anything you want!”

Ian points his banana excitedly at Mickey.

“Right, but does it give you qualifications?”

“Jesus! You sound just like Fiona!”

Ian puffs out his cheeks and decides to change tact

“I wanna fuck you in the shower.”

“I wanna fuck you in the shower too, but I don’t think talking about what you’re gonna do next is the worst idea either.”

Mickey counters, burying his nose in his coffee mug to avoid the scowl Ian gives him.

“You’d rather talk than fuck me?”

“No, but we got a kid on the way ...”

It is Mickey’s trump card, the one he uses sparingly but unfailingly when Ian needs to be dragged back to reality, something that is happening more and more of late. Not that Mickey minds, he isn’t really a dreamer and he likes that Ian is.

Sure enough, Ian’s face softens and he reaches forward, gripping Mickey’s knee tightly.

“You are gonna be a great dad. We both are. We got all the time in the world to work out what we’re gonna do next.”

“Yeah, not really though.”

Mickey licks his lip and jerks his head in the direction of Svetlana’s bedroom.

“Svet looks ready to drop any day and I know she’s gonna be getting money from selling tit-milk but that won’t cover the short fall from the whoring and I gotta sort somethin’ out my end cause ...”

Ian stops him with a kiss and slowly climbs onto Mickey’s lap, working his fingers beneath the short sleeves of his tee and caressing the softly muscled arms beneath.

“Me going back to school isn’t going to help our money situation.”

“Not right away but eventually ...”

“Stop.”

He cups Mickey’s face between warm palms and kisses him again

“Okay but what if ...”

“Mickey ...”

“What if I went back with you? You graduate, I get my GED. I could get a proper fuckin’ job and be able to by those cartoon bedsheets and shit that you keep goin’ on about for the kid. Maybe get our own place?”

Ian looks down at Mickey suddenly a little uncertain of himself

“You’ve been thinking about this?”

“Nah man, but I look at the jobs I can get now, and the jobs I wouldn’t mind doing for thirty years and there is big fuckin’ difference.”

“Shit. Yeah well … I guess maybe ...”

Ian bounces slightly on Mickey’s knee, more from nervous energy than anything but it does start to distract his boyfriend a little and Mickey’s lips curve upwards in a smug smile

“Getting a tight fuckin’ ass from all this running, Gallagher.”

“Oh you wanna play now?”

Ian grins and Mickey shrugs one shoulder, flicking his tongue into the corner of his mouth nonchalantly.

“I could go for somethin’, maybe.”

“Sure you don’t want me to see if Lip’s around? You know, if you’re into smart types now.”

“Ugh. No. I’ll take a welding, wood-working, whatever type any day.”

“I said carpentry.”

“I want you to work my wood.”

Ian tips his head back grimacing.

“That was terrible.”

“Shut the fuck up and get upstairs.”

“You don’t wanna talk more?”

“Upstairs. Now!”


	14. Arrival.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read this far. Comments and kudos are much appreciated, as are your thoughts and ahead of part two of this series. xxx

They wake one morning to a low, deep, moaning wail. Mickey reacts first, throwing himself out of bed and grabbing the bat he keeps beneath it, in one fluid motion before he is even fully awake.

Ian is right behind him as they leave the room, his chest flush to Mickey’s back, ready to protect him from whatever is out there.

“Svet?”

Mickey calls and is answered with another groan. It is coming from the bathroom. Mickey glances up at Ian and wordlessly hands him the bat, pressing his shoulder against the bathroom door. He raises his eyebrows and Ian nods, hoisting the bat to his shoulder, ready.

One. Two. Three! Mickey puts his full weight against the bathroom door which flies open to reveal Svetlana braced against the sink, head bowed, a puddle at her feet.

“What the fuck? Did you piss on the floor?”

Mickey squints at the fluid mistrustfully

“Baby. Mmmmmmmmoooooohhh! Baby!”

Svetlana grinds her teeth against another contraction and grips the sink at tightly as she can.

“What the fuck do you mean ‘baby’? The baby’s comin’ now?”

Mickey’s voice is raised and flecked with notes of pure panic, his eyes wide. Ian gasps and chucks the bat over his shoulder, pushing past Mickey.

“Oh my God! Go get the baby bag, Mick!”

Ian beams excitedly, coming forward as Mickey stumbles back. Ian wraps his arm around Svetlana’s middle, acting quickly and in the way that the tutorials for birthing partners he has watched on YouTube told him to.

“Okay, you’re gonna be okay. Mick? Mickey?”

Mickey has not watched birthing partner videos and is rooted to the spot, staring in renewed horror at the puddle on the bathroom floor. Ian clucks his tongue impatiently and waves his free hand across his boyfriends line of vision.

“Hey.”

Mickey looks up and Ian smiles encouragingly at him

“I’ve got Svet, grab the baby pack and get it in the car, Mick.”

“The …? My Dad’s car? She can’t have the baby in that piece of shit!”

Ian begins to manoeuvre a panting Svetlana out of the bathroom and gives Mickey an impatient look

“She’s not going to. You’re going to drive us to the hospital. Get moving.”

“The seats are covered in shit … I think there’s a crackpipe under the driver’s seat …”

Mickey mumbles but his legs are operating and he’s moving toward Svetlana’s room where her hospital bag is stashed and ready so Ian turns his attention to Svetlana as they begin to navigate the stairs.

“You OK?”

“Yes. Thank God you are here. He is useless.”

“He’s just a little freaked out.”

“Always freaked out … this child must have my iron spine, not his weak … MMMMM…..”

Svetlana breaks off and grips her belly, sweat puckering her brow.

“MICK! Hurry up! We gotta go, NOW!”

Ian bellows and Mickey appears with Svetlana’s pre-packed bag in one hand and a bottle of disinfectant in the other.

“What’s that for?”

“I gotta clean the car.”

“идиот”

Svetlana whimpers at the same time as Ian gives Mickey a very gentle half-smile and says

“Babe, there really isn’t time.”

Mickey blinks at the use of the affectionate moniker and it seems to rattle him out of his stupor.

“Right. Okay … Jesus. Okay, fine.”

He races down the stairs, tossing the disinfectant onto the sofa, shoving the bag at Ian.

“Go check this. I got her.”

Svetlana looks at him with open scepticism but doesn’t protest as he and Ian switch tasks.

Ian barrels out of the front door, Mickey and Svetlana moving slowly in his wake.

“I ask you for very little, yes?”

“Huh?”

Mickey’s mouth is hanging in a small, silent ‘o’ and Svetlana’s patience with his fear snaps like a twig. She grabs the front of Mickey’s shirt, digging her nails painfully into his chest.

“Ow! Fuck!”

“If I die, you will not name my son ‘Steven’ and you must raise him well. If you do not, I will haunt you to gates of Hell and have the Devil burn your soul.”

Ordinarily Mickey would tell her to fuck off but he’s never had to squeeze a human out of his body and he supposes it must be a stressful experience.

“You ain’t gonna die. Name the kid whatever the fuck you want and we’ll raise him together, okay?”

“The three of us?”

Svetlana asks looking over at Ian who is crouched beside the car, checking the bag against the list he has made, and Mickey nods, curtly. Now is not the time to try and maintain the splintered remains of his closet door.

“Yeah. The three of us.”

“He is good. A good balance for baby.”

Svetlana gasps and then doubles over, clutching herself through the next contraction.

“You okay?”

Mickey carefully pushes her hair back to peer at her face and the gentle touch nearly makes her weep, but Svetlana is not a crier, not even as her body convulses in pain and she straightens with a determined sniff.

“My pussy is about to be ruined.”

Mickey searches for something, anything, to say to this woman he really doesn’t know very well, who is about to have his child.

“You can make a decent living with your mouth.”

Svetlana pauses in her shuffling and turns to look at him, her expression unreadable

“… or your hand.”

Mickey offers uncertainly. Svetlana cups his cheek gently and presses a slightly sweaty kiss to his lips.

“You’re a sweet and stupid moron.”

Mickey thinks that given the circumstances that is probably fair enough and holding her a little more tightly, they start moving again.

*

Ian drives, Mickey sits in the back with Svetlana. Every nerve in his body is thrumming and he feels a little of the giddy, stress induced mania that he felt in the army. It has been cropping up here and there but the intensity of the moment is bringing it out in force and he can’t seem to stop chattering.

“...Blue is a real nice colour for an outfit for a boy or a girl and if the baby has Mickey’s eyes then it will be even better but it might have Svetlana’s eyes and so maybe just white would be better for the first ...”

“Shut him up, please. Shut him up!”

Svetlana begs, her hand clenched tightly in Mickey’s, both palms slick with sweat.

“Ian ...”

Mickey uses the tone of voice that normally gets Ian’s attention and sure enough bright green eyes snap up to the mirror to catch Mickey’s look

“Can you shut the fuck up for a bit?”

“Oh! Yeah. Sorry. Sorry, Svet.”

“Da.”

Svetlana waves the apology off and grimaces

“Drive faster. Baby is coming soon.”

Mickey’s fears about crack-pipes resurfaces and he lunges forward, jabbing his finger at the gas pedal

“Put that fuckin’ size thirteen flipper on the gas and move it, Gallagher!”

“Got it!”

Ian floors it and Mickey slams backwards, a protective arm coming around Svetlana’s shoulders.

“Christ. I’m never doing this shit again.”

He mutters and Svet pats his knee affectionately

“Carrots do not often get pregnant.”

Mickey gives her the side-eye and as she smiles, he tongues the corner of his mouth firmly. Even pregnancy inspired tolerance has limits.

“Fuck off.”

*

They make it to the hospital, in one piece and Ian screeches to a halt in an ambulance parking space, lurching out of the car and rushing in to get a nurse whilst Mickey manoeuvres Svetlana out.

“Sir, you really can’t park...”

“My wife’s having a fucking baby.”

Mickey snarls, not bothering to look at the old security lady who is hovering by his elbow.

“Yes, but this is an ambulance parking bay ...”

“And today, I’m a fuckin’ ambulance. You want me to make her walk across the parking lot?”

“Mickey! Over here!”

Ian calls, waving from a side door.

Mickey begins to move Svetlana toward the door but an anxious hand tugs at his sleeve. His nostrils flare as he looks round at the guard, cursing his luck that it is an old lady not some dude he could just knock on his ass.

“What?”

“Your car ...”

“Jesus Christ! Here!”

Mickey shoves the keys into her hand in frustration

“Do what the fuck you want with it! Move it, sell it, shit on it, I do not give a fuck.”

She is so shocked that she lets Mickey go and they make it to Ian without further incident.

“Terry will be pissed if you lose that car.”

“Terry can fuck off too.”

Mickey says grimly, making his wife smile again.

*

The nurse who arrives with Ian is a bespectacled young man with a winning smile and an eager expression, pushing an empty wheelchair ahead of him.

“So which of you is Mrs Milkovich?”

He asks, paying no heed to Svetlana’s exhausted grimace or the incredulous and homicidal look dawning on her husband’s face. The last of Mickey’s patience has been used up on the lady outside and he is in no mood.

“Is it you?”

The nurse asks Mickey playfully, misreading his audience hopelessly.

“Do you want to fuckin’ die?”

Mickey snaps

“Mick!”

Ian hisses and Mickey gives him a wide-eyed stare as if to say ‘what did I do?’

“First time, huh?”

The nurse smiles

“Yeah.”

Mickey nods and runs a hand through his hair, instantly calmer with Svetlana in the hands of the professionals, even a professional who is possibly retarded.

“OK. Maternity is on the fifth floor. We’ll see you up there, Dad”

Mickey watches as the nurse wheels Svetlana away and Ian claps a hand on his shoulder.

“Fuckin’ ‘Dad’?”

Mickey looks at Ian utterly bewildered and Ian nods, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Congrats!”

Ian laughs and kisses the middle finger Mickey gives him.

“Come on, Dad. Let’s go!”

*

The birthing room is the stuff of Mickey’s nightmares. It is clinical and smells weird and makes his skin crawl. He stands rigid beside Svetlana’s pillow, letting Ian fuss and flap and take pictures on his phone that no one is ever going to want to see. He’s acting crazier than ever but Mickey doesn’t give a shit as long as he doesn’t have to move from his spot.

“Get in the photo, Mick!”

Ian is lining up another horrible shot and Mickey awkwardly leans in, the blue apron and weird cap thing rustling with every movement.

“Smile!”

Ian orders and captures the less than beautiful moment that Svetlana screws up her face and roars, and Mickey cowers with a look of utter horror at the noise coming from his wife.

“The red one is insane.”

Svetlana pants, almost sobbing and Mickey nods apologetically

“I know. I’ll delete the pictures.”

“Smash the phone!”

Svetlana breaks off as she makes another deranged howling noise and Mickey offers her his hand.

“Just hurry the fuck up and we can all go.”

“Fuck you!”

She spits but grips his fingers tightly.

“Holy shit! I can see the head!”

Ian is flapping his hands in a complete haze of over excitement

“Look! Look, Mick!”

Mickey shakes his head and lifts his eyes to the ceiling but Svetlana, crushes his hand and looks up at him pleadingly

“You must look. This is our child. You must… MMMMOOOOHHH!”

“Fuck! Alright! Alright! Jesus Christ. That fucking noise ...”

With a grimace of a man about to put his dick in a blender, Mickey edges his way down the bed and peers between her legs.

Mickey shrieks loudly and Ian isn’t sure whether he is laughing or crying or maybe both but he is pretty sure he has never heard Mickey make such a high pitched noise before. It was barely even words.

“It’s got a fuckin’ face!”

Mickey informs the room helpfully once he is sure he isn’t going to faint and Ian grabs him, pulling him into a hug that Mickey is too overwhelmed to be concerned about.

“Alright Sweetie, push now!”

The nurse instructs gently and Mickey flaps both his hands wildly, shoving Ian off and staring between her legs with an expression caught between horror and joy.

“PUSH! HOLY FUCK! PUSH, SVET!!

Svetlana bears down and as she screams, Mickey and Ian’s voices rise to join her and moments later a fourth voice joins the chorus as Yevgeny Alexandr Clayton Milkovich makes his appearance into the world with a loud, healthy wail.

“It’s a boy!”

The nurse exclaims happily, catching Yevgeny and swaddling him in a towel.

Ian cheers and wraps his arm around Svetlana’s heaving shoulders, kissing her temple and smoothing back her hair.

Svetlana slumps back, elated and exhausted and the doctors check the baby before declaring him perfect and laying him on his adoring mother’s chest.

Mickey laces his fingers behind his head, his expression one of silent awe, breathing heavily.

“You did it! Look at your boy! You did it, Svet!”

Ian is crying openly and Svetlana nods, a few tears escaping her own lashes.

“Da! We did it.”

Svetlana smiles first at Ian then at Mickey.

“You want to see your son?”

Mickey nods, wordlessly and steps forward. The squalling little bundle doesn’t look anything like what Mickey expected a baby to look like having never seen a new born before, but the word perfect springs to mind and Mickey dashes a finger beneath his eyes before tracing one chubby little cheek with his knuckle.

“Hey, little man.”

He whispers and then licks his lip and says

“I gotta text Mandy.”

Leaving the room before anyone can protest.

*

Ian finds him slouched on the floor by the vending machine, rolling a cup of dark coffee between his hands.

“Hey Daddy.”

He calls cheerfully, sitting comfortably beside his boyfriend.

“Hey. How they doing?”

“All fine. Both asleep.”

“Good.”

Mickey nods and tips his head back against the wall

“Jesus, that was something else, huh?”

“Yeah it was! It was amazing!”

Ian sighs contentedly and lets his cheek rest lightly on top of Mickey’s head.

“Don’t really look like anyone, does he?”

“Not yet, but it takes a little while sometimes.”

Ian smiles and rubs Mickey’s knuckles lightly with his thumb. Small touches like this are not normally allowed in public outside of Boys Town and Ian savours the moment diligently.

“You sure you want all this? The kid and everything?”

Mickey asks, his voice quiet.

“Of course I do! How could I not want your kid?”

“Fuck knows if he’s even mine.”

Mickey snorts, though there is no amusement in his tone. Ian bites his lip and then shrugs

“He probably is yours. But even if he’s not, biology isn’t everything. I’m not Franks, but he’s still my dad.”

Mickey glances up at Ian in surprise

“Yeah? I didn’t know that about you. How come you never mentioned it?”

“Because it doesn’t matter.”

“Matters to me! I got myself sent to juvie cause I felt bad about killing your old man and he ain’t even … Ow!”

Mickey laughs as Ian thumps his leg

“Asshole. My point was that if you love that baby, he’ll be yours. Same as he’ll be mine. And if he develops crazy good eyebrows, a shitty attitude and your weird tongue thing, we’ll know for sure. But it won’t change how we love him.”

Mickey’s tongue thing goes into overdrive as he takes this decision in and nods.

“Yeah I guess, he’ll be mine in … uh … in the same way you are. It’s not blood it’s just family, you know?”

Mickey rubs the edge of his eye firmly with his thumb, avoiding Ian’s gaze and Ian kisses the helix of his ear softy.

“Yeah, I know.”

“You know, your life might have been easier if you stole the fucking chopper and flew off into the sunset.”

“Nah. I’d probably just have tipped it over and had to go on the run by myself.”

“Fuck that.”

“Exactly.”


End file.
